Dry Heat
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: A brutal murder, a small town, and a guy from the Bureau of Land Management.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: PG

Author's Notes: Set one year after the end of the canon, with McC finishing up his third semester of law school, and trying to settle into a slightly different role—this story includes some characters I've trotted out before: Professor Sturgis, from _A Fork in the Road_ and _Dead Wait, _and the mysterious Mr. Patterson from _Road Trip_.

Welcome to the mythical town of Dry Mesa, population apparently thirteen (and only two of them without speaking roles), plus one snake, three sheep (deceased) and a few shorthorn cattle. You can practice both law _and_ medicine here with only a literary license.

Thank you, Lynn, who asked for a vacation to Arizona. This is, most likely, not the trip you had in mind.

And to Cheri and Susan, those fast and diligent betas, who never get their time zones muddled or their tenses confused, my dearest thanks.

**Dry Heat**

By L. M. Lewis

Chapter 1—A Death in the Family

McCormick had decided, some time back, that rumors travel faster across a college campus than possibly anywhere else, except in prison. Therefore it didn't surprise him, on that warm morning, the last day of spring term examination week, that he'd already heard this one in several variations, even before he'd made it from the library to the building where the history department's offices were located.

'Dead' had evolved into 'murdered', with a gradual encrustation of details: an anthropology professor, very well liked—he'd seen one young female student sobbing quietly, under the colonnade outside the student union. Then things took a turn for the macabre in the lobby of the history building, where one teaching assistant was intently informing another, "A cult, she was _carved--_"

No name yet. McCormick doubted that he'd recognize it if he heard it; he knew no one in that department. He spent most of his time over in the School of Law these days, and only made the occasional foray into the history department to visit his old friend and mentor, Robert Sturgis. That's where he was heading now.

Two flights of stairs, a familiar turn down a familiar hallway, and he found himself at Sturgis' door, closed, with no light from the other side of the frosted glass. He frowned, checked his watch, checked the wall clock, and leaned up against the opposite wall to wait.

Two more TA's ducked by, one giving him an odd look. It was then that he began to get the feeling that something was wrong, or maybe it was a moment later, when one of the department secretaries came out of the office, a few doors down, shaking her head and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

"'Scuse me," he said quietly, "Natalie, right?"

The woman looked up at him; now he could see her eyes were red-rimmed and teary, but she nodded at him in recognition of his face.

"I was looking for Professor Sturgis; I had an appointment."

"Oh," she let out a breath, shook her head, looked down. "He won't be in. You didn't hear?"

"Hear what? He's okay?" McCormick knew Sturgis's heart wasn't good.

"His niece. Professor Emory, from the anthropology department . . ."

And suddenly all the disconnected rumors took on a much more vivid color.

"Where is he?"

"Home," she gestured vaguely with the tissue. "One of the TA's drove him. He just got the news about two hours ago."

McCormick nodded. Home was an estate called 'Two Palms' over in Malibu. "How was he?"

"He was . . . composed," Natalie twisted the tissue, looking barely composed herself. "Oh, it was awful. They say she was killed. Murdered . . . she was all the family he had, you know."

Now that he was putting his mind to it, he could picture her. He'd only met her once or twice--a brisk, cheerful woman, in sensible shoes, starting to have a touch of gray.

_They'd said 'carved'. _

"What happened?" he asked, with an intent abruptness that seemed to startle the woman back into the moment.

"Nobody knows," she hiccupped. "She was on sabbatical, in Arizona. She was . . . found dead." Natalie's voice dropped to just above a whisper, "They say she was stabbed . . . _cut up_."

"Who? They've made an arrest?"

The woman shook her head. "Someone from the local newspaper called. I talked to her. She said something about a cult. I didn't tell poor Professor Sturgis about _that_. Anyway," she sighed tearfully, "nobody seems to know very much."

McCormick rubbed the bridge of his nose, ran the odds, and made his decision then and there. He would probably find Sturgis faster by going directly to Gull's Way, than by detouring to Two Palms.

00000

The judge met him at the door of the main house.

"He's upstairs; I had him lie down. I told him it was the guest room or the emergency room," Hardcastle said grimly. "And I'm still kind of leaning toward the other."

"That bad, huh?" McCormick looked in the direction of the stairs.

"Yeah, the sheriff called him—the idiot—gave him the message by phone. He hadn't even known she'd been missing. He talked to her the day before yesterday."

"And all this stuff--"

"Ah, yeah. The details." Hardcastle was moving back into the den, away from the stairway. Mark followed him in and shut the doors behind him. "Sit down," the judge pointed. "You didn't know Vangie too well?"

"No," Mark shook his head, "just met her once or twice."

"I knew her growing up, nicest kid in the world. Used to visit Bob every summer. Smart, too. Her folks passed a few years back, car accident. And Bob was widowed ten years ago, so they were pretty much all the family each of 'em had."

"What happened?" McCormick prodded gently.

"Don't have much—I just got off the phone with the sheriff's office out there. They aren't saying a whole lot. But they're already calling it murder."

"Stabbed?"

The judge nodded. There was a pause, and he added. "There was some mutilation. That's the word they're using. They wouldn't be more specific."

Mark grimaced. "Suspects?"

"Yeah, but no one in custody."

"When are we leaving?" McCormick asked straightforwardly. He caught the look Hardcastle shot him. "Aw, come on, Judge, just giving him the news by phone qualifies them for incompetence in my book. Hell, I've _been_ shot and left for dead in Arizona. Wouldn't _you_ feel better if you were doing some on-site inspections? Anyway," he added, "I've done more than that for people I owed a whole lot less to."

Hardcastle nodded, lost in his own thoughts for a moment. The he glanced up. "But I think we'd better talk to Bob, first. Anyway, he wants to see you." He smiled sadly. "He's gonna ask you--"

"Well," McCormick interrupted quietly, "then it's good that I don't know much, huh? And we're just going there to help out with arrangements. Take care of details. Right? And maybe he can give you some sort of power of attorney; he's her executor, I'll bet."

The judge nodded again. "I was writing it up a few minutes ago. Never hurts to have some legal standing, since we're not family."

00000

Mark took the stairs slowly, trying to work out the answers to the questions he figured he'd be asked. The door to the guest room was open, the light out, but the shade not drawn. He saw Sturgis lying on his back atop the covers, with one arm across his forehead. He tapped lightly on the edge of the doorframe.

"Professor?"

Sturgis raised his head and slipped his arm behind it, gazing at the younger man with a look of distraction. "Mark? I'm sorry I left in such a hurry. Didn't even leave you a--"

"Shh," McCormick hushed him. "You had other things to worry about. Just let the judge handle things for a while." He studied the face of the older man. Sturgis had looked frail for as long as Mark had known him, nearly four years, but now there was an added pallor. He could understand why Hardcastle had been contemplating an ambulance.

"I . . ." Sturgis looked around, almost bemused. "Maybe I dozed off for a bit."

Mark pulled up a chair. "Then you must have needed it. How do you feel?"

Sturgis was staring at the ceiling now. He answered slowly, after a moment's thought. "Numb, I think. A lot like when my wife died . . . though that wasn't as unexpected."

Mark listed to the quiet, analytical tones and knew exactly what the man was doing. It was what was necessary in order to get through the next few days. He left that alone.

"Tell me . . ." he hesitated; this might be wrong, but he didn't think so. "Tell me about her; I didn't know her very well."

"Oh," Sturgis sighed, "Evangeline?" He smiled up gently at the ceiling. "Now there was a gentlewoman and a scholar. She could make a shard of pottery sing." He turned his eyes toward McCormick. "I told her that her job was much harder than mine--history without the words. Do you know what she said?"

Mark smiled back, and shook his head once.

"She said 'Words lie; you have to get beneath them.' With archeology, there weren't any words. She liked it that way. God, Mark, she was so bright, so _observant_ . . . and she was kind, too. Helped so many students."

"What was she doing on her sabbatical?"

"This and that, really," Sturgis sighed again. "Looking for potential sites; she was always doing that, and keeping an eye out for the interesting find. She hadn't been out there very long. She gave her finals early, that was last Friday, and she left the next morning. Only a week."

"You talked to her? She didn't say anything had happened? Didn't seem worried?"

Sturgis shook his head, then turned toward McCormick. "You know Milt asked me the same questions. Almost word for word."

"I'm sorry," Mark flustered. "I didn't mean to--"

"No, don't be." Sturgis smiled fondly now. "I just thought it was interesting. And I understand that you're both being concerned . . . Milt asked me for some authorization. I know he's not going there just to make sure the paperwork is all in order." Sturgis's look turned more serious. "The thing is, if everything they were saying is true, if she was murdered, Mark, maybe he should let the authorities handle it. It might be dangerous."

"If the authorities _are_ handling it, I'm sure we'll be glad to step back and let them do their job."

"'We', eh?" Sturgis squinted at the younger man.

"Somebody's got to be the calm voice of reason." McCormick shrugged, trying to ignore the rising eyebrows of the older man. "Anyway, you should try to get a little rest. We'll make a few calls, and some arrangements." Mark kept it intentionally vague. "Then I can take you home in a bit. Natalie said she'd stop by and see if you needed anything this afternoon."

"And you and Milt will head off to Arizona to do some skulking?"

"We call them 'inquiries'." Mark smiled gently. Then he laid his hand on Sturgis's arm. "I only wish there was more we could do."

The professor eyed him with a look of concern. "I only hope it won't be too _much_."

00000

Mark sidled into the den, listened to what sounded like the tail end of a telephone conversation. The inquiries had already begun.

As the judge hung up, McCormick asked conversationally, "What do you think . . . five days?"

"Dunno," Hardcastle frowned thoughtfully, "Maybe a week. I'm not getting that much more out of anybody. Pack hiking boots; they're saying she was found pretty far off the beaten path."

"Who found her?"

"A rancher. Saw vultures; thought it was a downed animal."

McCormick made a face. "And the . . . mutilation?"

"A sign, some sort of symbol. They're saying it was done post-mortem. It seems to be their one big clue. And that's _all_ they're saying over the phone." Hardcastle looked at his watch, then down at a piece of paper on his desk. "There are a couple more people I could talk to."

"You phone; I'll pack and type," Mark held out his hand for the document.

"It'll need a notarized signature."

"We'll do that on the way back to Two Palms." The younger man looked down at the paper. "It's a good thing you've got _me_; no one else could decipher this."

As he left the room, the judge was dialing again. McCormick smiled to himself. The man seemed to have a nodding acquaintance with half the sitting judges in the surrounding states and a decent sampling of law enforcement personnel.

Then his smile slipped a little. No amount of investigating would resurrect Evangeline Emory; the most they could hope for was a sense of closure.

Chapter 2—The Short List

It was the long-ingrained notion of half a lifetime, that Mark had always felt if he could just get behind the wheel of a car, everything would be okay. In this case it was a truck, and edging into the evening of a very long day. The judge had his notarized Power of Attorney. McCormick had gotten Professor Sturgis home, and into the capable care of Natalie.

They'd packed heavy boots, and the sun-block. McCormick had also quietly tucked away in his duffle a collection of implements useful in the skulking trade, often handy where legal documents did not seem to suffice.

Now he and Hardcastle were east of Palm Springs and past the worst of the traffic and Mark was watching the last of the sunset in the rearview mirror. It was odd how quickly he slipped back into the role of Tonto. He thought he would be enjoying it, under any other circumstances than looking into the death of Robert Sturgis' niece.

As if their silent thoughts had collided in mid-air, just then the judge asked, "How was he, when you got him home?"

McCormick squinted into the dark, punched the headlights up to high, and shrugged. "Calm. Natalie was there, she's the secretary in his department."

"He's always like that," Hardcastle said. "Always been hard to tell what's going on underneath."

"You've known him a long time. How was he when his wife died?"

"Oh," Hardcastle exhaled slowly. "That was cancer. That's different. Slow. By the time it's finally over, well . . ."

McCormick cast a sideward glance at the other man, who was himself gazing fixedly out into the deepening dusk. He tagged on a quiet, "Yeah," to the silence. Not that he'd had much experience with slow deaths; mostly it was the quick and unpredicted kind.

"How far you want to go tonight?" Hardcastle asked, after a bit more silence.

"Um," McCormick shrugged again, "till I get tired." He thought the judge ought to know by now that, barring illness or injury, once behind the wheel he would drive as long as it took to get wherever he was going.

Hardcastle frowned, probably having heard all the words, even the ones he hadn't said out loud. "You know, if we get there at dawn, with us all worn out and looking like ten miles of bad road, she'll still be dead."

"I know," Mark replied quietly, then he segued into a question, "Did you find anything else out, about their 'clue'?"

A quick shake of the older man's head. "The coroner's office was being very tight-lipped. The sheriff let one thing slip, though. He asked me if I knew anything about something called 'The Road to the Sun'. "

"Never heard of it," Mark said, after a moment. "Have you?"

"No. Didn't ring any bells for me, either. But I called up the local newspaper--told 'em I was doing some background research, kept the 'why' part a little vague, might've left the impression I was from the LA Times--and _they _gave me an earful."

"Don't tell me," McCormick grimaced, "some kinda cult. There's gonna be black chickens involved."

"No robes, no chickens. Not so far. But the nice lady from the Dry Mesa Free Press said the group had 'attracted the criminal element' into the area."

"Why the hell would the criminal element want to hang around some little two-bit backwater town in Arizona? " McCormick groused. "She's just trying to soft-pedal it. There'll be black chickens, you just wait and see. Cults," he muttered, "don't have anything like that back in Jersey."

00000

California slipped beneath their wheels, Arizona loomed ahead in the darkness. Both men had sunk into silence. McCormick looking focused, driving the front edge of the high beams, the judge dwelling on what he'd heard, and what he hadn't.

_A circle and beneath that two jagged lines, done with something very sharp--a knife, or maybe a shard of glass, carved into her back, all the way to the bone in places. But no bleeding, done when she was dead, or nearly so. The death stroke had been much more mundane: a slash across the throat. That had bled freely, but not where her body was found. _

"Someone took a lot of trouble with her death," the judge said quietly. He laid out all the details for the other man. He shook his head. "Of the hundred different reasons to kill someone, random insanity is about the hardest to figure out. How can you make any sense out of it?"

"Doesn't sound random, Judge. It sounds _calculated_." McCormick frowned out into the darkness. "Anyway, even insanity has a logic of its own. The circle, the two lines—that's this 'Road to the Sun' thing?"

Yeah," Hardcastle replied. "It's something that's carved on a cliff near there. Pretty well known locally. That's what they call it, but nobody knows exactly what it means."

"History without the words," McCormick murmured. The judge gave him a sideward glance. Mark straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. "That's what Sturgis said she used to call it . . . Do you think someone killed her because of _that_? Because she was an archeologist?"

"Dunno," Hardcastle shook his head. "People can get so damn touchy about who _owns_ things. But Vangie never wanted to own any of it. She just wanted to understand it."

"Sturgis said she was looking for 'finds'. Artifacts?"

The judge nodded. "For museums. She did some of that. She must've had some sort of arrangement. She knew the local collections pretty well, and she knew what they were looking for."

"Maybe she found something valuable?"

"We're talking pot shards here. Maybe stone bowls, arrowheads," Hardcastle said doubtfully. "One time I was over at Bob's place, maybe 'bout six years ago; she was just back from a trip. She was showing us what she'd found, all excited over this piece of a jar, something about polychrome and it being from someplace she hadn't expected to find it. I'm telling you, kiddo, her notion of 'valuable' was different than most people."

"But she might have stumbled into something."

"I suppose." Hardcastle gave him another look. "We oughta stop somewhere. You've been up since--"

"Six-thirty. I'm okay. I _like_ driving." McCormick tried to look alert and unwearied. Then after a moment he added, "How much of this does Sturgis know?"

"None of the details . . . yet," the judge said quietly. "But she was a popular professor. It's gonna make the LA papers by tomorrow."

"See?" Mark said flatly. "He'll know soon. _All_ the gory details, if the reporter had half the chutzpah you have, working the phone." McCormick smiled thinly, but it had faded almost the moment it appeared. "You know Sturgis. He's gonna need to know . . . and then he'll need to know _why_."

"So, we drive all night and hit the ground running, huh?" The judge's smile echoed the other man's.

"Yup, before anyone has a chance to cover anything up." McCormick nodded in agreement. "Anyway, I drive all night; you sleep. _One_ of us better be coherent enough to lie tomorrow."

"'Lie'? I've got Power of Attorney."

"And they've got mysterious symbols, black chickens, who knows what all. If we don't have to lie to somebody before this is over, I'll be vastly surprised."

"You packed your set of lock picks, I suppose."

"Damn straight," McCormick conceded. "I've _been _to Arizona." He rubbed his right shoulder unconsciously. "And you've got your .45 in that duffle bag back there, either that, or you brought along a couple of heavy law books for reference, _Counselor_."

"_Both_," the judge smiled grimly. "But let's at least _try_ to do this--"

"Legally?"

"No . . . I mean, of course 'legally', but what I was _meant_ was, let's try to do it with some _finesse_."

"So, the gun and the picks stay in the bags until at least day two, huh?"

"And no unnecessary lying."

"That's always been my motto," McCormick flashed a look of sincerity. "Right after 'Be Prepared.'"

"I thought it was more like, 'Don't Get Caught.'"

"No, that's my _old_ motto. I'm reformed now. You said so yourself, and I've got a piece of paper to prove it."

"Well, if you're going to carry a set of lock picks around, you'd better stick to the old motto," Hardcastle retorted, a little testily.

"Just so you know--the list is pretty short these days."

"What list?"

"The list of people I'd use those lock picks for," McCormick replied. "But Sturgis is on it."

Hardcastle said nothing to this. He knew his name was on the short list, too, and it had made the difference between success and failure a few times. _But that was then_.

"It's different now," he finally said, a little stubbornly.

"How so?" Mark smiled thinly. "You think the mashed potatoes are even lumpier in the Arizona penitentiary system?"

"It's not funny," the judge insisted.

"It never was," Mark shot back, "and I never did it lightly."

"You've got more at stake now."

"You're wrong there, Judge." McCormick shook his head adamantly. "Everything was always on the line, every time."

"Listen," Hardcastle tried to keep his voice even, the soul of patience. It wasn't easy. "You've got to stop this. I'm not letting you throw it all away taking some crazy chance. There's almost always another way. You've got to understand that by now."

"And what about the times when there isn't? What if someone's life is at stake?"

"There isn't. She's dead. You can't undo that," Hardcastle said quietly. "So we do this right, and we do it cautious—no crazy risks, no grand gestures."

McCormick stared out into the night, toward the absolute unforeseeable future that lay just past the reach of the headlights. "Okay," he promised reluctantly. "No unnecessary risks. Flagrant necessity only."

"And who's gonna be the judge of that?" Hardcastle asked dubiously.

"You," Mark answered, slower than Hardcastle would have liked. "Unless it's a _real_ emergency and you're not available," he added, after half a beat.

Hardcastle frowned. "Maybe you should just let me hold on to them for you . . . For safekeeping."

"Only if you don't trust me." McCormick had kept his eyes on the road, with only a hint of challenge in the statement.

A minute of silence, another mile of darkness. Finally Hardcastle spoke. "I trust you to do what you think is right . . . regardless of the consequences."

"Okay," Mark sighed. "I _promise,_ life or death only. And I will consult my attorney beforehand if at all possible." He flashed a sideward grin. "Satisfied?"

This got a nod and a frown from the older man, who was still studying the statement for angles.

"If it makes you feel any better," McCormick added, "I'm _glad _you brought the .45. Arizona is dangerous: rattlesnakes, crazy women with rifles . . ." his voice trailed of in the direction of none-too-fond recollection.

"One woman, one rifle. She's still in prison."

"I should _hope_ so. But there's still plenty of snakes."

00000

Night was tingeing into dawn as McCormick finally saw the exit, and, by the time he had driven the last stretch on a paved two-lane, it was full daylight on a bright morning that already promised to be a scorcher. He nudged his traveling companion as they approached the outskirts of town.

"Hey, we're here. Dry Mesa. You awake?"

From the muttering and blinking, he would have to say the answer was a qualified yes. It took a couple more seconds before the judge was up to giving directions. "Main Street and Mesa Avenue." He was looking at a piece of paper he'd pulled out of his shirt pocket. "'The Pine Lodge.'"

McCormick looked around as he drove down Main slowly. No pines in site, just a dusty, deserted street which looked like the last twenty years had passed it by. "Creative license," he muttered. "Like 'Greenland'."

He saw a quaintly out-of-date set of stucco cabins off on the right. The sign was faded forest green, with an overlay of neon outlining the letters. There was enough white paint and artfully arranged cactuses in pots to move the place from run-down to nostalgic.

"She always stayed here, when she was in this neck of the woods," the judge explained. "Bob says she knew the owner."

McCormick shrugged his shoulders wearily. "Sounds like a good place to start. Just give me an hour or two to closely examine one of the mattresses before you go do any skulking."

"We don't _skulk_," Hardcastle protested. "This is an _inquiry_."

"Yeah," McCormick yawned, "that's what I always say."

Chapter 3—Circular Reasoning

The judge stepped down from the truck, stiff from the long drive, and surveyed his surroundings—another dusty rural town bypassed by the interstate. This one was eking a narrow existence from off-the-beaten-path tourism, not a good environment for full and frank disclosure about the murder of a visitor.

It wouldn't even require any particular viciousness, he reflected. It'd be just human nature to want to sweep something like this under the nearest hand-woven rug. He glanced aside at McCormick. He was leaning up against the truck, squinting wearily. The judge didn't share the younger man's hard-earned aversion to Arizona, though he understood it well enough. He felt the same way about Clarence sometimes. It was hard to keep your perspective about a place where people had tried to kill you.

_We should just come here for a vacation sometime. Ride the mules down the Grand Canyon. _No, maybe not. He didn't think he could stand a whole day of donkey comments.

The motel office was another stucco building, a little larger than the other cabins. There was a shadow of movement and then the screen door opened. A small woman leaned out, studied him for a second, and then asked, "Mr. Hardcastle?"

He nodded. "Mrs. Parsons?"

She nodded back, and waved them over to her, glancing around with what appeared to be nervousness. She held the door as they both passed through.

The interior was neat and tidy, though well-worn: a wall-rack of brochures, touting sites as far away as Albuquerque, an ancient water cooler standing in the corner, the steady rumble of a window air-conditioning unit. She pointed them toward a little white enameled table over by the side window, a place with a view of the road, where she'd apparently been sitting, awaiting their arrival.

"I'm so sorry," she said softly, with a little duck of her head. "You were friends of Vangie's?"

Hardcastle nodded again. "Her uncle asked us to come over, take care of things."

"Oh, her uncle the history teacher," the woman smiled sadly. "She used to talk about him a lot. How is he?"

"I don't think it's really hit home yet," Hardcastle tried to keep the grimace off his face. He'd only spoken to her for a few moments on the phone the afternoon before, but Emmalee Parsons was just what he'd been hoping for.

The woman had pulled a hankie from her pocket and was twisting it; it already looked well-abused. "Oh," a half-sob escaped, "poor thing. What they're saying . . . I just can't believe anyone would do that to someone. And she was so nice."

McCormick was pulling out one of the chairs for her. The judge coaxed her into it. The two men took their seats, Hardcastle across from her. They gave her a moment to collect herself.

"I'm sorry," she said again, letting the phrase cover a multitude of things. "She was staying in cabin four. There's nothing of hers there now; Sheriff Wannerman came and picked it all up yesterday afternoon."

"For the investigation; it's routine," the judge said reassuringly, ignoring a sideward glance from McCormick.

"I suppose," Emmalee sighed. "I told him I was expecting you."

"Well," Hardcastle kept his face serious but unconcerned, "that's nice, then he's expecting _us_." He ignored yet another pointed look from the younger man. "Maybe we could check-in, if you don't mind. We drove straight through."

Mrs. Parsons nodded absently as she wiped her nose one last time before getting up. "I'll put you in number five. Is that okay?"

"That'll be fine," Hardcastle smiled encouragingly. "And I'll just stop by here in a bit and we can talk some more." He tried hard to make it sound more like a chat than an interrogation.

"That'd be . . . nice." Emmalee smiled wanly as she stepped behind the counter and pulled out a registration card.

00000

McCormick carried the bags. The judge fiddled the key into the lock of number five's door, loose and a little stubborn. Mark thought he might have done it faster with the picks.

_Bad suggestion,_ he swatted down a smile. After last night's conversation he thought maybe it wasn't a fit subject for humor. He followed the other man into the room, cool and dim with the curtains drawn and the air conditioner already running. Obviously Mrs. Parsons had done everything to anticipate their visit.

"She seems nice," Hardcastle remarked, as though they'd been thinking along the same track again.

McCormick nodded. He put the bags down next to the TV stand and sat down on the bed further from the window. "Okay, you go chat with Mrs. Parsons. Lemme have a couple hours." He was kicking off his shoes and pulling the pillow free from the coverlet. "Not Sheriff Wannabe--"

"Wannerman."

"Whatever. Not yet." McCormick flopped down sideways without any further progress toward getting undressed. "Just a couple hours and I'll be good to go, Kemosabe."

00000

In the minute or two it took Hardcastle to unpack and sort out, he'd already begun to hear snoring from the younger man. He resisted a brief, but very strong impulse, to sort McCormick's stuff out, too, and do a little confiscating. _He said he'd talk to you, first._

_Yeah, but will he listen when you talk back?_

With a thoughtful frown, he left one of the keys on the dresser and slipped back outside, pulling the door shut. The sun was well up now, and, in contrast to the dim interior of the cottage, it felt like an oven outside. Hardcastle surveyed the empty street that ran past the motel: a few parked vehicles, mostly small trucks, one man across the street, leaning against the north wall of the Post Office, the very image of indolence, no other pedestrians.

He strolled back to the office, matching his pace to the heat. He gave the door a couple quick taps with his knuckles and then stuck his head in.

"Mrs. Parsons?"

She was back at her place behind the registration desk, sorting through some papers. She smiled wanly. "You ought to call me Emmalee," she said, with the emphasis on the last syllable. "Everybody does."

"And I'm Milt." He stepped inside and closed the door against the heat, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.

"You want to ask me some questions." Her smile had drifted away, replaced by a sad, pensive look. "Why don't you come in the back here. There's some comfortable chairs and I can get us some iced tea."

He followed her around the counter and through a doorway, into a sitting room. She showed him to an overstuffed chair with a doily tacked to it. She settled herself nervously on the edge of the seat opposite, all thoughts of tea apparently forgotten.

"Vangie and I were sitting here, just two days ago, just like this," she said in a breath of remembrance, and then looked away quickly. "That . . . must have been the day she was killed. I didn't see her car back here that night. I ought to . . . ought to have--"

"Told someone?" the judge finished for her, gently.

Mrs. Parson nodded tightly, reaching into her pocket for the hankie again.

"It wouldn't have made any difference," he offered the assurance quietly, but with firm conviction. "The rancher--"

"Harry Talcott?"

"Yes, the one who found her, he was out at first light, and she'd already been dead more than twelve hours. That's what the coroner said."

Emmalee still looked forlorn.

"See then, she must have been dead already a few hours, before you could even have known she was late coming back.

A sad little nod of resigned agreement. "Still," she said, "I ought to have told someone. She was all alone out there, all night."

"She wasn't alone; she was _dead_," he replied, with a little more firmness. "And all we can really do for her now is try to figure out who did it."

Mrs. Parson's eye's lifted to meet his, open and mildly worried. "It was _them. _Those men. Those _criminals_."

"Who?"

"They call themselves _Camino al Sol_. It means--"

"Road to the Sun." Hardcastle leaned forward in his chair. "But who _are_ they?"

"_Criminals_," the woman insisted. "That Mendoza fellow brought them here."

"A gang?" Hardcastle asked, trying to move the description along to the specifics. "What sort of criminal activity?"

"Well," Emmalee said with an exasperated sigh, "if we knew _that_, then the Sheriff would have arrested them and they'd all be in jail, wouldn't they?" She nodded with satisfaction at this line of thought. Then she dropped her voice to a shade above a whisper. "But that was their mark that they put on poor Vangie, their _sign_. Sheriff Wannerman will get them now."

"Has he arrested anyone yet?" the judge inquired mildly.

"No," Emmalee shook her head. "They're all lying pretty low, I'm sure. Maybe they've fled the state."

"Any theories as to _why_ these guys would have wanted to kill Vangie?" he asked, might as well see if there were any other wrinkles to the popular version.

Emmalee sat primly, thinking about this one for a moment. Then, having drawn her reasoning up into a circle, impervious to any assault by fact or logic, she replied, "Well . . . because they're _criminals_."

Hardcastle nodded, all his hopes of useful discussion vanishing like the morning mist under the hot and unforgiving sun of preconceived notion. He sighed. He asked a few more questions—the where's and when's of Professor Emory's last week on earth.

Mrs. Parson teared up again. There were more recollections than facts. "She used to bring her older students sometimes. They'd all stay here, make day trips out onto the mesa, into the gulches. Bring things back here at night. Little bits of things. Drawings sometimes. Vangie could spot a bit of a broken pot at fifty feet. Eyes like a hawk. Poor dear." Emmalee was dabbing at her eyes.

More gentle questioning and a few more stories. The bottom line was that Evangeline Emory had been doing what she usually did--heading out early in the morning, after a cup of tea and a quick chat with her temporary landlady. She was 'flitting about', following up leads and looking for new prospects. The only difference on Wednesday was that she never came back. She had not said where she was headed that morning. She had not mentioned any plans to visit the Talcott ranch.

He watched her settle herself down for a moment, and then changed tacks. "This is the only motel in town?"

"Yes," she sighed. "There used to be another one, on the south end of town. The Buena Vista, they closed up two years ago."

"How many units were rented out Tuesday night, besides Vangie's?"

"Oh, Lord, only two others: a truck driver, he took off real early Wednesday morning, and a nice family from Des Moines, on their way to Yuma for a wedding."

"That about average for you?" the judge asked curiously.

"Summertime, yes," another heavy sigh. "Wintertime, too . . . most times really. Honestly, the past eight years, since Mr. Parsons passed, things have been a little thin. I'd sell it and move on if I could find anyone who'd pay for it . . . and now _this_." Emmalee gave the hankie another twist. She was clearly grieving for more than her friend, the kind professor.

Hardcastle shifted in his chair and glanced up at the clock on the wall, only eleven, too soon to wake McCormick. "Where is the sheriff's office?"

"On Main Street, south of here."

"And the newspaper, the Free Press?"

"Main, south." Emmalee pursed her lips for a moment and frowned. "Pretty much everything is on Main Street."

"The Coroner?"

"Oh, he's over in the county seat, I think. That's about twenty miles from here. We only have one doctor in town." Her lips pursed again. "That's Dr. Sandoval."

"On Main Street?"

"Yes," Emmalee nodded. "South. The clinic."

"Was he called to see the body?"

"I suppose so," Mrs. Parson's frown deepened. "The county ambulance guys will call him sometimes, when there's a bad accident, to help out until the helicopter can get here from Phoenix."

Hardcastle nodded once. "Okay, well, I think I'll take a little walk. See the sights. Get some lunch."

"There's a café about a block and a half south, Lindy's; it's across the street from the sheriff's office."

"Sounds perfect," Hardcastle smiled. He rose to go.

Emmalee looked up at him, wistfully hopeful. "Do you think they'll find them? Those terrible men?"

The judge smiled sadly. "If they don't, _we _will."

Chapter 4—A Little Lawyering

McCormick awoke to the thrumming of the air conditioner and an uneasy feeling that he'd been asleep for more than a couple hours. A quick look at his watch confirmed his suspicions—two-twenty.

Either Mrs. Parsons was a true goldmine of information or Hardcase had gone ahead and started the investigation without him. Mark sighed, pushed himself upright and headed toward the bathroom. The judge's bag sat empty on the floor next to the dresser. His own was still packed. He frowned, and took a quick look in the top drawer—clothes, no gun. He shook his head.

Then he unzipped his own bag and poked around, feeling for the small and well-worn leather case. He found it near the bottom and pulled his hand out, leaving it where it was. He proceeded to the bathroom with a strange sense of moral superiority.

Twenty minutes later he was standing outside the cottage, squinting at the blazing brightness of the early summer afternoon. The truck was still where he'd parked it, ordinarily a good sign but, in a town this small, not one hundred-percent reliable.

He let his gaze wander up and down the nearly deserted street. Only one person in sight, and that was a man standing in the alley next to the post office, staring back at him. At least he was momentarily. As soon as Mark's eyes lighted on him, the other man's looked away.

McCormick frowned. The temperature was pushing a hundred. There was only so much comfort you could take in the absolute lack of humidity. The Post Office was a newer model, surely it was air conditioned. He supposed hanging around outside government buildings was something of a small town occupation, but it seemed otherwise inexplicable.

From this distance he couldn't make out much except that the guy was middle-aged, with dark hair and olive skin. He contemplated moseying over and introducing himself, but as soon as he took two steps in that direction, the man turned away, disappearing up the alleyway between the Post Office and the building next to it. He had not spared any more glances back in McCormick's direction as he walked away.

Mark mentally shrugged and filed it under rural weirdness. He headed toward the office, hoping to get a bead on Hardcastle. Mrs. Parsons was sitting behind her counter, reading a magazine. She smiled at him as he stuck his head in.

"He's not here," she said, before he even asked. "I think he was heading down to Lindy's Café." Then she frowned and glanced up at the wall clock. "But that was quite some time ago."

"Where's that?" he smiled politely.

"'Bout three blocks south, right across from the sheriff's office."

"Ah," he nodded, "I see." He gave her one last smile and ducked out again, smile gone, pace quickened.

Three blocks hardly justified the truck but he didn't want to have to walk all the way back if it turned out that the judge was already of getting a tour of the crime scene. He would trade all the moral superiority he'd acquired so far today for just one lick of cooperation from the man.

In the back of his mind was the nagging thought that maybe he'd become superfluous. Hardcastle could do this semi-official liaison stuff like nobody else. Not that Mark wanted things to get complicated. _God no, let the picks stay in their case. _But he did want to feel _useful_, and he knew, sure as hell, that he couldn't out-_lawyer_ the man.

The he thought of a few worst-case scenarios, and, just as quickly, pushed them down again as he opened the door to the truck and felt the heat billow out. He only waited a moment before climbing in and starting it up.

Lindy's was an unassuming little place on the right-hand side of the street. The sheriff had a two-story brick building opposite it. McCormick saw a familiar figure sitting near the front window of the café. Perhaps he'd been a little hasty. The judge had a cup of coffee and what looked like a small stack of newspapers on the table in front of him.

Hardcastle appeared to be deeply immersed in his reading. Mark heard the bell tinkle above the door as he opened it. The judge looked over his shoulder and gave him a quick smile.

"Got some sleep?"

"Yeah, no wake-up call, though," Mark said, a little coolly. "You saw the sheriff?"

Hardcastle shook his head.

"_Really_?"

"Nope. He was out. Went to see the coroner they said. They don't expect him back until sometime after three."

"Well, now there's a fine technicality." McCormick pulled out a chair and sat down. "You're not setting a very good example for me these days."

"What?"

"I mean," McCormick lowered his voice, "you're packing heat and riding solo."

"I'm sitting in a diner reading old newspapers." Hardcastle held up a _Dry Mesa Free Press _dated a week earlier. "And the _heat_ is in the glove compartment of the truck. I hope you locked up. I don't like to leave guns lying around in motel rooms. You know how easy those locks are. Even _I_ could pick one."

McCormick sat back in his chair. "Oh . . . okay," he added, slightly deflated. "Anything good in the newspaper?" He managed a small grin.

"What's _not_ here is almost as good as what is. Today, for example, we have a front page story about the local high school girls' softball team making the final four at state, class double-A."

"That'll sell a couple dozen extra copies," McCormick agreed.

"And here, on page two, three paragraphs down, near the bottom of the page: '_Investigation Continues into Death of California Woman'_. Apparently, according to the Free Press, the death has not yet been ruled a homicide."

"Well, now," McCormick's eyebrows went up a bit, "that's interesting."

"Course this is only a weekly publication, comes out on Friday. No late breaking editions. I suppose they might have put _this_ edition to bed sometime yesterday, before all the details were known."

"Or maybe they figure they could just squeak through this week with a couple of paragraphs and by this time next week, it'll be old news, arrests made and everything. It'd be a lot _tidier_ that way." McCormick's smile had gone grimly cynical.

"Well," the judge shrugged, "from what I've been able to tell, the only ones who don't know all the gossip about what happened and who did it, are people who are just passing through."

"I was taking a nap, you better fill me in."

"You didn't miss much," Hardcastle shook his head. "The general consensus--and that includes Mrs. Parsons, the lady who sells back editions of the Free Press, and the woman who waits tables here--is that these 'Road to the Sun' guys did it. That'd be a fellow named Mendoza, and a bunch of his followers--nobody's sure just how many. Mendoza's from around here originally, he inherited a small ranch from his mother a while back."

"So he started a cult?"

"Oh, well, here's the part you're gonna like." Hardcastle leaned forward a little in his seat. "Looks like this Mendoza guy did some time in the Arizona state pen, drug-related stuff. He's been out for about two years. Now he recruits other ex-cons, mostly guys with substance abuse issues, and 'rehabilitates' 'em."

Mark gave this a long silent thought. "Okay," he finally said, "might be hinky. But, you know, Judge, what the hell else is there to do out here besides go straight?"

"Yeah, well, that's kinda what I was thinking." Hardcastle sat back in his seat. "And here's one of their notices, last week's Free Press. They have meetings twice a month in the basement of the community center."

"Not gonna be doing in any chickens there, Judge. It'd be kinda messy."

"And the first Saturday of every month they have a hike up to someplace called 'Red Ridge'. They time it to arrive at sunrise. Everyone's welcome but you gotta carry at least two liters of water. "

"It's the safety-conscious criminal element."

"But this all could be a front," Hardcastle rubbed his temples. "It could still be a cult, just keep the black chickens out at the ranch for the invitation-only events."

"I dunno, Judge, maybe. But ex-cons, you know, I've been thinking, by the time they get out, most of 'em are pretty damn tired of being told what to do. They'd make lousy cult material. Anyway," McCormick leaned forward and reached for the current edition of the paper, "how do I join up? I feel a relapse coming on."

Hardcastle shook his head. "Mighta worked last week, but rumor has it most of these guys have blown out of town; Mendoza hasn't been seen since Wednesday. And you might want to keep your mouth shut about where you've been to camp, kiddo. The people in this town are pretty twitchy."

"Oh, come on," Mark frowned, "Emmalee Parsons leading a lynch mob? That's hard to picture."

"No, she'd be the one sitting there catching up on her knitting during the executions. She's not the kind you can reason with."

McCormick looked a little more sobered. "Then what? How do we get close to them?"

"We don't." Hardcastle said flatly. "That's not what we're here for. We're gonna talk to the sheriff when he gets back, go over as much of the evidence as he'll let us see, and try and point out any avenues of investigation he may have overlooked. Tomorrow we'll tackle the coroner, and try to get up to the crime scene. I'd like to talk to this Talcott guy, the rancher. Even Mrs. Parsons may be a better witness once she's settled down a little."

McCormick glanced out the window at the quiet building across the street. Then he sighed and reached for one of the menus stuck behind the napkin holder. "You had lunch?"

"Yeah, about four newspapers ago. They've got a special, lamb stew. It's pretty good."

McCormick looked around at the otherwise deserted café. "Does anybody actually _live_ here?" he asked. "This is like an episode of 'The Twilight Zone'. Where's the waitress?"

"Oh," the judge looked up from his reading. "She said she'd be back in a minute. She asked me to keep an eye on things."

McCormick gave him a hard stare. "How do you _do_ that? I mean, you pull into town at nine in the morning, and by mid-afternoon, they're asking you to look after stuff for them."

"Well, I've been sitting here all afternoon. Her name is Mary Ellen Davis. She didn't grow up here; she's from Tucson. She married the guy who owns the gas station/car repair shop down the street. Her husband's name is Ed. Mendoza had him put some extra heavy duty shocks on his truck last month. Mary Ellen figures that means he's up to no good."

"Hell, yeah," McCormick muttered. "Makes as much sense as anything. Do they have chili here?" He scanned down the menu.

"Yeah, but she'd probably have to thaw it out. You should go with the stew."

McCormick picked up an old issue of The Free Press. "'_Truck Damaged in Collision With Sheep'. _Look, even _that_ made the front page."

"It was a slow news week," the judge glanced at the date on the paper. "January, no softball."

McCormick, scanning the page, said, half to himself, "I wonder if it was the same Talcott who--?"

This was interrupted by another tinkle of the bell and the entry of a wispy blond in a waitress's uniform.

"Anybody while I was gone?" she asked a little breathlessly.

"Nope," Hardcastle shook his head. "Just McCormick, here, and he'll have the stew."

"Oh, you're Mark, the racecar driver," Mary Ellen's smiled.

"_Ex_-racecar driver . . . pretty much." McCormick frowned at the judge.

"He said you won the Modifieds," the waitress chirped, nodding in Hardcastle's direction.

"Two _years_ ago," Mark smiled back a little tightly.

Hardcastle was giving him one of those looks. It probably meant 'be nice', but at the same time he was saying, "Mary Ellen's husband is a big dirt track fan. I told her you still like messing around with cars. Off-road modifications, you know, _shocks_, stuff like that."

"I just came from there," the woman pointed back down the street. "I always bring him a snack right about now. And he said he'd really like to meet you." She stood there beaming. Then the smile fell a little. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear about your friend."

"I'm really more a friend of her uncle's," McCormick said quietly.

"_Oh_." The waitress looked a little relieved. "Well, I _am_ sorry. It was awful what they did to her."

McCormick didn't have anything to say to that. The young woman stood there for a moment longer, looking a little nervous, then she gave a quick nod and said, "The stew's already hot; it'll just be a minute. Got some biscuits to go with it," and she skittered off to the kitchen.

Mark was staring at the judge, who merely shrugged and said, "See, now you're practically a native son. You just wait, by this time tomorrow, half the people in town will know you."

"You _really_ don't want me sneaking around, nothing undercover."

"I'm just suggesting we try it my way for a change." The judge smiled. "You're half-way to being a lawyer now; you got some real skills there. You ought to try doing things legit once in a while. Get in the habit."

"You mean 'by the book'?" McCormick shook his head.

"Mostly," Hardcastle smiled again. "But it's a very thick book. Lots of room for creativity. You just gotta know what's in there, and what's not."

"So," McCormick rubbed the bridge of his nose, "just exactly why did you bring me on this . . . _fieldtrip_." He exhaled and leaned back a little, still watching the other man. "I mean, besides giving me a chance to relive my glory days on the track."

"To try your hand at a little lawyering, mostly," Hardcastle explained patiently. "Also because every once in a while we have to close the book and whack somebody over the head with it. And you're pretty damn good at that, too."

Chapter 5—The Guy from the Bureau of Land Management

_Yeah, okay, it's good stew._ Or maybe it was because he hadn't had breakfast.

"How'd you like it?" Mary Ellen leaned over the table with refills on the coffee.

It probably wasn't even a conscious thing, the flirting, McCormick thought. Pretty girl in a small town, she probably just left it on all the time. Good for tips, anyway. McCormick smiled back.

"Real good. Biscuits, too." It took all the fun out of it, knowing she had a husband over at the gas station. _And--_ he studied her face a little more closely; she started to blush

--_you've got, what, ten years on her_? He glanced back down at his nearly empty plate_. Maybe more._ He scraped at the last of the stew with pretended enthusiasm.

"That's probably him." The judge's voice, matter-of-fact, dragged McCormick's eyes back up.

Mary Ellen glanced over her shoulder as she headed back to the other side of the counter. "Yeah, that's Sheriff Wannerman," she confirmed.

Hardcastle was already on his feet, gathering up the newspapers into a small pile. Mark pushed his own chair back with a scrape. Then he froze, squinting out the window. A second man had exited the passenger side of the sheriff's car.

"Who's that?" the judge asked the waitress.

She moved back a couple feet toward the window and followed his nodded direction.

"Don't know him," she frowned. "Don't think he's from around here. Maybe he's from the coroner's office."

The second man had dark hair and a conservative suit that seemed out of place. His only concession to the summer heat was a pair of sunglasses. But even from across the street, in profile, and with the partial anonymity that the glasses provided, McCormick felt the strangest tingle of recognition forming at the base of his spine.

"_Can't_ be," he muttered.

"Might be," the judge replied, and McCormick paled. Hardcastle was the one who'd spent more time face-to-face with Patterson during their brief encounter a year and a half earlier.

"You think he still works for the Nuclear Regulatory Commission?" McCormick wondered out loud.

"I don't think he _ever_ worked for them," Hardcastle replied flatly.

"Well, that's a relief," Mark had lowered his voice to a whisper. "At least we aren't gonna be tripping over satchels full of plutonium this time."

The judge shot him a sharp glance. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't start celebrating just yet. I think the guys he _does_ work for send him wherever the red pin happens to be stuck in the map at the moment." Then he frowned, watching the two men enter the sheriff's headquarters. "But why's he _here_?"

The judge passed him the newspapers and fished out his wallet to pay. He smiled quickly at the waitress. "You open for dinner?"

"No." She shook her head. "But if you want, you could stop by our place later on. Ed's home by six. I was gonna make chili. I make a mean bowl of chili."

McCormick noticed, with some chagrin, that the flirting even extended to superannuated judges.

Hardcastle smiled avuncularly. "Well, that's real kind of you, and we might just take you up on it, if we can get our business settled with the sheriff before then."

Mary Ellen had already pulled out her order pad and was scribbling her address and phone number on the back of a torn-off sheet. "But you don't have to call. Just come on by." She handed it to the judge who smiled again. He folded it into his shirt pocket and gave McCormick a quick nod.

00000

McCormick unlocked the truck and stowed the newspapers. The judge was standing there at the curb, hands in his pockets, looking thoughtful.

"Dinner with the Davises?" Mark inquired casually.

"Hey, you wanted chili."

"I think one of us is going to wind up getting his teeth knocked loose by Ed. That woman drives with her high beams on _all_ the time."

"Nah, that's just how people are in small towns," Hardcastle smiled. "Just friendly, that's all."

"Yeah," Mark made a face, "friendly, like Melissa Kantwell." He shuddered.

"It'll be a good chance for you to meet Ed. And Ed knows Mendoza, at least enough to do business with him."

"I thought we weren't looking into that."

"Well, we're gonna have a little down time tonight," Hardcastle conceded. "Can't visit the crime scene _or_ the coroner until tomorrow. Might as well get as much background as we can."

"Would have been easier to just sign me up for membership," McCormick muttered.

Hardcastle shook his head as he stepped off the curb. "Let's go meet the local authorities."

00000

The clerk in the sheriff's office pointed them to the office but said Sheriff Wannerman already had a visitor. Hardcastle made himself comfortable in a chair. Mark stayed on his feet looking a little restless as he studied the FBI posters on the bulletin board.

Hardcastle, with an external demeanor of calm, was contemplating the possibility of Patterson. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that had been who he'd seen, the guy who was currently closeted with the sheriff. McCormick hadn't really pumped him for the whole story a year and a half ago; he'd seemed relieved enough that his whole unlikely odyssey with Paul Hanley and the radioactive duffle bag had not resulted in his own arrest.

As for the judge, he'd only had twenty minutes of tense negotiation with the man, followed by a couple of phone calls. In the end, his most definite impressions were that Patterson was working for the right side, and that he almost certainly had a cover story for his cover story.

But if Patterson was here, it could only mean that there was something more afoot than a tragic, but illogical death. And he wished to hell McCormick would stop pacing around like that.

"Sit down," he grumbled.

Mark glanced over his shoulder and frowned. "I sat all night."

But, just then, the door to Wannerman's office opened, and speculation collided with certainty as the guy in the suit emerged.

"Oh," Patterson grimaced, closing the door behind him, "it _is_ you. I shoulda figured. The sheriff said somebody named Hardcastle was coming from LA." He shook his head. "My luck . . . and you've got your loose cannon with you." He nodded in McCormick's direction.

"We're here because of a murder," Hardcastle replied with a touch of frost on the edge of the words. "Friends of the family. And you?" His eyes narrowed down. He spared a brief sideward glance to the loose cannon, and an even briefer shake of the head that meant--_you can't hit him yet._

Patterson hesitated a moment, apparently aware that the abrupt coolness in the room couldn't all be chalked up to air-conditioning alone. The judge thought he might be remembering what McCormick had done to the two Russian arms merchants; he didn't necessarily know that Mark'd had a little help on that one.

It was a short standoff, with Patterson finally stepping back and ratcheting down his body language. "Friends of the family?" the words came out almost apologetic. "Sorry."

"And _you_?" the judge repeated, a little more insistently this time.

Clearly, the mysterious Mr. Patterson had had plenty of time to think about this one. Hardcastle wasn't expecting the truth.

"Possibility of federal jurisdiction," he answered flatly. "Crime may have occurred on Federal land. The Talcott ranch borders on national forest."

"That's the best you can come up with?" Hardcastle replied with some surprise. "Who you with now, the Bureau of Land Management?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Patterson replied formally. "I understand the coroner will be releasing the body in a day or two. You'll be able to make your arrangements then. If you give me a number where I can reach you, I'll let you know if there are any further jurisdictional developments."

"Oh, I'll bet you will," Hardcastle smiled grimly. "Well, I'm over at the Pine Lodge for now, and how much longer really depends on how long it takes me to get to the bottom of this." The judge thought he was controlling himself pretty well, considering, and all those signals McCormick was flashing seemed pretty unnecessary.

It didn't matter. Patterson wasn't rising to the bait and merely responded with a sharp nod. "Very well," he said curtly, as he moved to the door.

The door had barely closed behind Patterson when McCormick, hand to forehead, was muttering, "Oh, great, let's just put it in the Free Press, why don't we? '_Retired Judge and Loose Cannon Investigate Death of California Woman'_. What the hell happened to all that _finesse_ you were talking about last night?"

"I don't think there's anything I told Patterson just now that he didn't already know," Hardcastle said in a low voice, as he got to his feet and crossed to the door of the sheriff's office.

The door opened almost before he'd knocked, and the man on the other side, looking weary and more than a little irritated, gestured them both in.

"Hardcastle, right?" the graying, slightly stooped man said. He had a face that had seen a lot of outdoors, and eyes that probably didn't miss much.

The judge didn't bother with a polite smile. The walls weren't thick enough to have blocked his conversation with Patterson.

"This is my associate, Mark McCormick. Here are my papers from the deceased's next-of-kin and executor of her estate." He had the notarized forms out and on Wannerman's desk almost before the man had reseated himself. The sheriff picked them up and gave them a jaundiced look. "I'll be frank with you," Hardcastle didn't bother to take a seat, "we're not just here for Vangie's remains and personal effects. We're here for some answers."

Wannerman's eyes came up sharply, as if hearing the woman's first name had caused some quick jolt of recollection. _He must have known her, too_, Hardcastle realized; it was a sudden but definite impression. _Hell, small town, and she a frequent visitor—maybe only a nodding acquaintance, but at least not just another dead face. _

He softened his approach to something more collegial. "We know you haven't had much time on this one, Sheriff, and we're not expecting miracles. In fact, if there's any way we can be of service . . ." Hardcastle paused, giving it his most calm, _professional_, expression.

There was no question; Wannerman was fighting hard to suppress a look of aggravation.

The judge switched tacks again. This time the argument was more direct. "We've had a lot of experience with task forces; we're particularly good at interfacing with state and _federal_ authorities." His smile was open and outright friendly now.

Wannerman seemed to be considering this for a bit. The frown was no longer directed at them, but something else even more annoying. Hardcastle gave him room to think.

"I did make a couple of inquiries after you called yesterday," the sheriff began slowly, "to the LAPD. _They_ seem to think you're useful." There was another long and thoughtful pause and then, "And you know this guy Patterson?"

The judge nodded. "Oh, yeah . . . we did him a favor a year or so ago."

"He's with the Bureau of Land Management?" Wannerman's eyebrows had gone up in disbelief.

"Loosely attached," Hardcastle replied dryly.

"I get this special request, from Phoenix, to cooperate with this guy. He comes in, sticks his nose into everything. The Bureau of _Land Management_?"

"Special Division," Hardcastle said, without a hint of a smile.

Wannerman frowned, skepticism still written across his face. "Well, if you want to do me a favor, I don't suppose you could keep him off my back a little. I've already shown him everything we've got."

"No problem." The smile was back.

"And I suppose I should bring you guys up to speed as well." Wannerman glanced down at his watch. Kinda late to run you out to where the body was found," he reached for a file that was at his elbow, "but I can show you the map, and what the coroner's got so far."

00000

An hour and a half later, they knew as much as anybody but the murderer about what had happened to Professor Emory, which was still not a whole lot. They also had Wannerman's official opinion on who the killer might be ('Don't have one . . . yet.'), but that he didn't much like it when people he wanted to talk to didn't make themselves readily available for questioning.

The two of them were back out on the curb, the summer sun still sitting well above the horizon and the heat almost more oppressive than before.

"So, whaddaya think?" the judge asked casually.

Mark cocked his head; the smile was a little dubious. "Congratulations, you're the lesser of two evils."

"Aw, come on, we hit it off pretty good."

"And you're gonna run interference with Patterson for him?"

"Yeah, well I was planning on sticking pretty close to Patterson, anyway. He's the guy who knows what's going on."

McCormick shook his head. "He sure as hell isn't going to tell _you_ anything. He hates you."

"No," the judge pondered that for a moment. "I think 'hate' is a little strong. We kind of understand each other. _You're_ the one he's worried about. He can't figure you out at all."

"So you're the lesser of two evils again?"

"Yeah." Hardcastle smiled. "Works out kinda handy that way, huh?" The judge looked down at his watch. "Whaddaya say we head on over to the Davis's? It's after six."

Mark made a face.

"Come on, it's _chili_."

Chapter 6—The Imp of the Perverse

The Davis home was a double-wide near the outskirts of town. The front was neatly landscaped with river rock and a Joshua tree, but around the side, where the property stretched off to a whole lot of nothing, there was an open-sided metal shed and the remains of half a dozen vehicles in various stages of reanimation.

The judge cast a glance in that direction, then back at McCormick, who was giving the collection a more studied look. The younger man shaded his eyes.

"That one on the end, half under the tarp, it's a Bonneville,'61 or '62."

"Oh, you and Ed are gonna hit it off just fine," Hardcastle chuckled.

Mary Ellen was at the front door. She smiled as she waved them up the steps and into the living room. "I'm so glad you could make it. You talked to the sheriff?" Her face took on a brief, more serious expression.

Hardcastle nodded. "He was real helpful."

"Well, that's good," she smiled again, a nice sober, thoughtful smile, followed quickly by a nod in the direction of the kitchen. "Dinner's just about ready and Ed'll be here any minute."

She pointed them toward the sofa and, at almost the same moment, they heard another car pulling up.

Ed, a tall, sandy-haired guy in a denim shirt, with his name embroidered on an oval patch over the pocket, had a hug for Mary Ellen and a bluff smile for his visitors. He seemed genuinely glad to meet them, if anything could be judged from his handshake and the even broader grin when he was introduced to Mark.

It took a brief look, and an almost unnoticeable nudge, from his wife before he remembered the circumstances. "I am sorry about what happened to Professor Emory," he shook his head. "A real nice lady. I did some work on her jeep last week. She was up in the back country, pretty rough driving up there, busted up her tie bar."

Another nearly imperceptible nudge, most likely Mary Ellen trying to pass the hint that every conversational gambit should not lead back to auto repairs. This time she got only a puzzled sideways look from her husband.

Then they adjourned to the table, at least the visitors did, while Mary Ellen snagged her husband into the kitchen to help with the carrying. If it took a few moments longer than expected, all the eyebrows were back down in neutral by the time they returned, bearing a salad bowl, corn bread basket, and the chili pot.

"I don't know which is better," the judge said, a few bites into the main course, "this or the stew. They're both pretty darn good."

Mary Ellen blushed and smiled. "Well, the stew recipe's Lindy's and this one is my own."

"Well, then I'll have to come down on the side of the chili," Hardcastle smiled right back at her. "I am partial to it."

"So, Lindy owns the café?" Mark interjected.

"Oh," Mary Ellen's smile dropped a little, "she did. She got sick last winter. The hours were just too long for her. There's just not enough business to split it between two people. So I took over the place. Kept all her old recipes, though."

"And she's added some of her own," Ed interjected.

"Business has been picking up," Mary Ellen said with cheerful optimism. "I had twenty-two customers today. That's including you two," she gave the two men a grateful nod. "And that fellow who you saw with the sheriff, he stopped in for a piece of pie and some coffee. He stayed till closing. I practically had to throw him out."

Hardcastle's smile was a little thin, and the look he was getting from Mark said, in entirely readable signals,_ who's gonna be sticking close to whom?_

But Mary Ellen appeared to catch the expressions, too, and looked flustered for a moment. "But I didn't mean," she stumbled over an apology, "I mean, having someone murdered wasn't good for business." Then she swallowed once, hard, as if she was worried that she'd only made things worse.

"Oh," Hardcastle was all understanding now, "we know you didn't mean _that_. I n fact we were just remarking this morning, that this has got to be a pretty bad thing for the town, all in all. An unsolved murder. Bad for tourism."

There was a flash of puzzlement on Mary Ellen's face, while Ed looked slightly more interested. She spoke first, "It's not exactly 'unsolved' though, is it? More like they haven't caught them yet."

"If it's them," Ed interjected quietly. This got him a quick sideways look from his wife and an "Oh, _Ed_," that had all the hallmarks of an ongoing discussion.

Then there was a moment of slightly awkward silence. When it appeared that neither of the Davises was going to pick up the ball, Mark finally stepped in.

"That Bonneville out there, a '60? A work-in-progress?" he asked Ed.

"Yeah," the younger man's broad smile was back. This was familiar territory. "It was my dad's. Original engine, too--a Trophy V-8. Body needs a little work, though."

"My uncle had one, a '59."

Hardcastle felt himself tense up just a little. This conversation was only a few steps away from a nostalgic reminiscence about a very precocious career in grand theft auto.

But Ed forestalled whatever McCormick might have been going to say next. "You wanna see it?"

"Yeah, definitely," Mark grinned.

Ed was already on his feet before he glanced in Mary Ellen's direction.

"You just go on out there," she said cheerfully, with a little shooing motion. "Dessert can wait."

The judge stayed in his seat as Ed led McCormick to the back door. "I'll stay here," he said to Mary Ellen. "I know how this goes; they'll be talking compression ratios in a couple of minutes and it's all downhill from there.

This got a grin over the shoulder but no denial from Mark. Mary Ellen's tinkling laugh filled the room. She was getting up, too.

"I'll go make us some coffee," she offered.

"Nah," Hardcastle motioned her back down. "You've been on your feet all day. Why don't you sit down?"

But she was already up and clearing the table. "I don't mind, really. I like cooking like _they_ like cars." She nodded in the direction of the recently departed. "But if you want, I'll let you help."

The judge picked up a couple of plates and followed her into the kitchen, stacking them on the sideboard while she scraped and rinsed.

"Your husband likes this Mendoza fellow, eh?" Hardcastle commented casually when she turned from the sink and reached for the percolator.

Mary Ellen sighed and didn't look up. She dismantled it with unnecessary attention, then ran the cold water into the pot and counted the scoops out loud as she measured the coffee into the basket.

". . . seven." She finished up softly, and set the basket and stem back into the pot. She turned back to the judge after she plugged it in. She was frowning. "I'm sorry about that. I don't know what's got into him. He knew him from high school. They played football together, had some shop classes. I don't think they were _close_, you know, but I didn't meet Ed till later on." She returned to the sink, turning the water to hot and putting in the stopper. "I think it's kind of hard, if you know somebody, to think of them doing something like that." Her voice had almost dropped to a whisper.

"Maybe he _didn't_ do it," Hardcastle suggested.

She gave him a disbelieving stare. "But the symbol, it's theirs, and those men he brought here, they've all got criminal records. They're all _cons_."

"_Ex_-cons," the judge corrected gently.

"But if it wasn't them, what about the . . . the _carving_?" Mary Ellen took the first dish and started washing, in a motion that was mostly automatic. "Why--?"

"To shift suspicion to them, which it has," Hardcastle grabbed a dishtowel from the rack alongside the counter, and reached for the dish. "Is Mendoza crazy . . . or stupid?" he asked reasonably.

Mary Ellen frowned again. "I don't know him. Ed does." She was working her way down through the small stack of dishes, biting her lip and not saying anything more for a few moments. Then it came out, in a blurt. "But then it would have to be somebody else, one of _us_."

"Yes, it would have to be someone who knew about the symbol," Hardcastle nodded, "who knows what it means around here."

"Why not one of Mendoza's men?" She had a stubborn set to her mouth. "Some of them seem pretty crazy." She handed over the last of the silverware.

"_That_ crazy and _that _stupid?"

"I don't know," there was just the slightest hint of doubt to this. "I've never really met any of them. I've served a couple of them coffee. Sometimes breakfast. They don't sit around and talk, though. They're . . . _distant_."

"Well," Hardcastle shrugged, "kinda figures." He hesitated a moment. "I'm not saying they're a bunch of angels. It might be a scam. I guess it all hinges on this Mendoza guy, if he's for real or not."

Mary Ellen had pulled the plug. The last of the dishwater went down with a gurgle and she leaned over to rinse out the sink. The judge didn't prod. He let her think.

"I'd kinda like to meet him," Hardcastle finally added quietly.

"Ed _doesn't_ know where he is," she replied almost reflexively. "If he did--"

"He'd have told you?"

"He'd tell Sheriff Wannerman," Mary Ellen finished with firm certainty. "He's already let everyone know he wants to question Mendoza."

"Well," Hardcastle mused, half to himself, "if it does turn out that he wants to talk to _somebody_, you know, to tell his side of the story, but maybe not to the sheriff right off-hand, then I'd be willing to meet with him."

The percolator had been bubbling for a few minutes already, the smell of coffee strengthening by the minute. They heard the sound of the back door and a friendly argument.

". . . I'm tellin' you, if you can get it up to even 10:1, you'll get another 40 or 50 hp, otherwise some guy with a hemi is gonna come along and blow your sidewalls off." It was Mark's voice, with Ed laughing in the background.

Mary Ellen unplugged the pot and reached up to the cabinet for the cups. "I've got pie. It's pecan; I hope you like it."

"My favorite," the judge replied, taking a hint that the other subject was closed for discussion—for now at least.

He carried the percolator while Mary Ellen set the cups and plates and pie on a tray. The other two were still talking animatedly. She smiled knowingly at the judge as she set the tray down at the table.

"Anything but engines," she announced. "No engines with dessert."

"Drive trains?" Ed asked, only half-jokingly. His wife shook her head as she sliced into the pie.

"Okay, then, racing," Ed said. This got a nod of approval, as Mary Ellen served up the first piece. "We've got a dirt track up in Waller. I'm putting a cage in the Camaro; gonna run her."

"You do your own welding?" Mark asked.

"I do some."

"Well, some's not enough when it comes to that. It's okay to specialize a little, 'cause sooner or later you find out just how good those welds are."

Mary Ellen's smile of approval broadened. "_See_, didn't I tell you?"

Ed looked cheerfully chagrined. "Yeah, well, maybe I'm more an engine guy."

"Then you're one up on me," McCormick smiled and shrugged. "I just got behind the wheel and made 'em go."

"Yeah," Ed exhaled. "But that's the whole point of it, right? Are you coming back to the modified this year? I know we're kinda off the beaten path out here—a lot more action back in California."

Mark shook his head. "Nah, that was a one-shot deal."

"Hell. You win a race and it's like . . . _nothing,_" Ed said with a little envy in his voice. "Sheesh, but then, you've won a lot of 'em."

"Some," McCormick admitted; the concession was matter-of-fact. "I gotta say, the Modifieds was pretty special. I hadn't raced in a while, not regular for about, um, seven years now."

"But, why not?" There was a look of total bafflement on Ed's face, and even Mary Ellen looked surprised. "You're not _that _old."

"Gee, _thanks, _Ed," McCormick laughed.

"No, really," Ed persisted. "You were pretty good and you gave it up? How come?"

The judge had heard this one plenty of times before, and all the various permutations of the response, depending on McCormick's mood and who was doing the asking. Even so, he wasn't quite ready when the answer came back, short and to the point.

"I was in prison."

The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of Hardcastle's coffee cup settling on the saucer.

"Ah . . ." Mary Ellen said, but went no further. It was as if both the Davises had thought they'd misheard, but there was no way to ask for verification.

"San Quentin," Mark went on, still matter-of-fact, "two years, felony auto theft."

The judge winced internally. The kid hadn't even tried to soften it with the somewhat sporty 'grand theft auto'. Ed and Mary Ellen were still waiting silently for a punch line.

Ed finally ventured a quiet question. "It was some kind of mistake, right?"

"Yeah . . . mine." McCormick smiled a little grimly. "Though you're not going to find a lot of guys in prison who don't think they're innocent." The smile softened a bit. "And you'll be glad to know I've also given up _stealing_ cars."

Mary Ellen managed a smile back. It was the polite thing to do, but, all-in-all, it was good that they were mostly through the pie, because McCormick's revelation was sitting in the middle of the dining room table like something the cat might have left--altogether unignorable, but a real damper on further conversation.

The judge, with Mary Ellen's occasional distracted assistance, managed to bring the dinner to a close, with Ed still looking thoughtful and McCormick displaying his patented brand of social obliviousness. Finally they were up on their feet and saying their goodbyes.

Hardcastle thought he could almost hear Mary Ellen's sigh of relief as the door was closing behind them. They walked to the car, McCormick with his hands in his pockets, slouching a little, appearing lost in thought. The judge was thinking pretty hard himself. _You can't really yell at somebody for telling the truth. _

They had both climbed into the truck, still silent, Hardcastle driving. He had it in gear, and was down the street nearly a block, when he coaxed out a few words in what he hoped was a mild tone.

"Next time you're gonna have an acute attack of honesty, would you give me a little warning?" A quick sideward glance caught the kid starting to grin but still not saying anything. "Was that just you trying to tell me something back there?" Hardcastle asked pointedly.

This time he got a short laugh. "Hell, no, Judge." The grin settled down into something more subtle and pensive. "No, I didn't think about it all that much." He turned his head to face Hardcastle. "But they won't be giving me the key to the city any time soon, eh?"

"Maybe Mary Ellen won't want to admit she had an ex-con to dinner. It's possible," the judge sighed. "So, if it wasn't to teach me a lesson, why the hell _did_ you do it?"

Mark shrugged. "Cause I liked 'em."

"Huh?" Hardcastle's eyebrow went up.

"Look, Judge, it always comes out, sooner or later. If they didn't hear it from me, they'll eventually hear it somewhere else. Ed'll mention my name to somebody he meets who's on the circuit. Then he'll get an earful. You should hear some of the stuff that's floating around out there about me." McCormick shook his head. "One time a guy told me he was surprised I was out already; he'd heard I'd _killed_ Melinda . . . not that I hadn't had the thought," he added in a mutter.

"Yeah, but the _timing_," Hardcastle grumbled.

"Sorry about that," McCormick replied, sounding none-too-sorry. "But, whatever sinks my stock with the Davises may raise it in other quarters," he added hopefully.

"Don't be too sure about old Ed," Hardcastle replied quietly. "He may be more open-minded than his better half. And he's the one who knows Mendoza."

"The guy we aren't interested in, huh?" Mark smiled with some satisfaction.

Chapter 7—Skulking

The short drive from the Davis's to the motel was punctuated by yawns from the judge. By the time he'd turned onto Main Street, he'd already concluded that maybe McCormick's little moment of indiscretion might work in their favor.

"Yeah, might be Ed's not buying into much of the town gossip. And if he thinks Mendoza's on the up-and-up, you're just the guy Ed might feel safe using as an interface." Then Hardcastle frowned. "But in case we're wrong, and Ed too, about Mendoza, you don't make any arrangements without letting me know first. No going off and meeting him without back-up, you hear?"

"I hear, Judge, and since it seems like a long shot, I wouldn't count on--" this line of reasoning was cut short as they turned into the Pine Lodge's parking lot and saw the non-descript sedan with the government plates pulled up in front of the unit across from theirs. "Wonder where _he _had dinner tonight? Maybe we shoulda just wrangled him an invite from Mary Ellen and saved everybody a lot of pretense."

The lights were off in the room but it seemed unlikely that the occupant was asleep when it wasn't quite nine.

"Maybe he went out for a walk," the judge mused.

"Hah," Mark waved casually at the darkened window as he got out of the truck.

"Stop that," Hardcastle shook his head, "you're just provoking him."

"I _like_ provoking annoying people," Mark protested, "especially when they haven't got anything to arrest me on."

"You don't file income tax returns. I do."

Once inside their own room, Mark went first to the phone.

"What—?"

He shook his head once, sharply, silencing the older man. He dismantled and reassembled the mouthpiece with quick efficiency, then broadened his search to take in the less likely possibilities. The judge provided a running commentary of banalities, of the sort that could be answered with a routine yes or no, and very little thought.

Fifteen minutes later, Mark shrugged. "Where's all that American know-how and technical ingenuity they're always talking about in 'Popular Science'? I expected he'd have at least one trick up his sleeve."

"Well, we haven't checked his sleeves, yet," Hardcastle yawned again. "But that's gonna have to wait until tomorrow." He was already turning down his covers. "I know it's kinda early, but I'm pooped."

"S'okay, "Mark sat down on his own bed, picking up the stack of newspapers he'd carried in from the car. "I'll catch up on the high school girls' softball team, if you can sleep with the desk light on."

"Won't be a problem."

00000

An hour and a half, and four months back in the Free Press, Mark lifted his eyes from the page and rubbed his neck. He'd been surprised how easy it was to get into the rhythm of the thing: bake sales and obituaries, a bond issue to build a new gymnasium at the junior high, and of course, the three sheep killed in a tragic encounter with a local motorist.

_Ordinary lives._

The judge's snoring had turned into a deep and regular rumble. Mark turned his head and considered the still-dark window across the way. What he was contemplating would not have met with the judge's approval, he was fairly certain, though it wasn't on the list of specifically proscribed things that had been mentioned in the last twenty-four hours.

_Ah, the technicalities._

No, it was more in the way of testing the waters. _Or poking a stick into a wasp nest. _He picked up the plastic ice bucket that had been left on the desk. He made his way to the door and undid the latch. If he did all of these things with the utmost care and avoidance of unnecessary noise, it was only out of consideration for the judge, who was, no doubt, feeling the strain of the last day and a half.

He slipped outside, easing the door shut again, then made his way to the portico on the north side of the motel office, where he'd seen the ice and soda machines earlier that day. He lifted the lid on the former and used the scoop to fill the bucket, still as quietly as possible; he didn't really want company from Mrs. Parsons right now. Then he fished in his pocket for some quarters and deposited them in the other machine, taking his time with his selection.

He set the bucket down, popped the can, and took a leisurely drink, still out of sight of the cabins from his current position. He checked his watch. He'd only managed to kill six minutes but somehow he thought that might be enough. He walked around to the other side of the small building, where the shadows were still deeper. When he reached the corner, though, he strode, no skulking whatsoever, trusting the unexpected approach would gain him a moment or two unspotted.

He couldn't have been more correct if he had been referencing Patterson's own personal field manual for monitoring the movements of suspicious characters. The man was already out on the porch, peering off toward the other side of the office and clearly trying to decide just how far to let this go before pursuing.

Mark raised his can in salute as he stepped out into the light from the office window.

"'Evening, Mr. Patterson. Finally cooled off some." He took another swig. "Soda machine's a little temperamental." He looked over his shoulder at the shadows from which he'd just emerged. "Don't tell Mrs. Parsons I was watering her begonias." And with that, and a smile, Mark put the can in the bucket and stepped back through the door of his own cabin.

"Don't bait him," came the voice, half asleep, from the bed.

"I was thirsty," Mark latched the door and put the bucket down on the desk. "Do you want me to go back and get you one?"

"No," the judge turned over, away from the light. "Just don't bait him anymore."

And Mark was glad he'd gotten it done before it had been added to the list. He sat back, retrieved his can, and took another thoughtful swallow. He'd seen something else while he'd been out on his little foray, and checking that out further would possibly take him across the line.

The judge's breathing evened out again. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed. It was almost eleven o'clock. Mark got up, experimentally, and flicked off the light switch, allowing his eyes to slowly adjust to the near-darkness. He'd taken a certain amount of satisfaction from watching Patterson go through The Ritual of Pretending to Want a Soda, but he hadn't seen any more action from that cabin since the man had gone back inside.

_Still, no doors this time._ He'd taken a careful look at the bathroom window a few hours earlier. _Chalk it up to safety awareness--always know at least two exits from any room._ He thought that was in the Boy Scout manual somewhere. He knew this one would not be a tight fit and it had shown no signs of being painted shut.

He moved into the bathroom, diffusely lit by moonlight through the frosted glass. A step up on the edge of the tub, a gentle coaxing of the window—he was still within the realm of reasonable explanation if Hardcase awoke unexpectedly, though he doubted the man would believe a word of it if he'd claimed to be needing a little fresh air. But now he eased himself up onto the ledge and swung his feet through, into the forbidden—

He dropped down, nearly silently, onto the sandy ground below the window. This side of the cabin faced back, away from the street, and into a vacant lot. He crouched there for a moment longer, hearing nothing. He finally let out a breath and stood, easing the window back down, not that it would make any difference if Hardcastle woke up while he was out.

He made his way quietly along the back side of two more cabins, going away from the motel office and staying in the shadows. When he'd cleared the last one, he had a sightline to where he'd glanced before, while he was getting the ice. He studied the dark passage alongside the post office for several long moments until he was certain. Someone was standing there, a little back from the street, not far from where he'd seen the elusive man this afternoon.

He stepped back again, considering the possibilities. The one that involved going back and waking up Hardcastle, he passed over without much consideration—that would mean Patterson most likely becoming aware of their activities as well. He finally settled on a widely circuitous route, behind two more buildings and across the street at least a hundred yards down, then behind yet another set of buildings, hoping to fetch up between the unknown observer and his route of escape.

He was just about to congratulate himself on his keen sense of nocturnal navigation when someone unexpectedly grabbed him around the neck from behind, and pushed him into the unforgiving brick wall of the U.S. Post Office.

"Be quiet." The voice was harsh and breathless, and scared, too, if he was any judge of these things. "Who the _hell_ are you?" the man asked.

He wanted to point out the contradiction in the two requests, but just then his mysterious assailant pulled up a little harder on his arm, to establish who had leverage. Mark let out a yelp and an indignant, "Well, who the hell are _you?_"

Then, "Shit . . . it _is_ Skid," and the pressure let up enough that he could turn partway around. He was cataloguing quickly, based on only the few words that had spoken, and correlated to the group of people who would still know him by that name.

"_Hooch_?" Now he could see teeth flashing a smile in the darkness, and the dim outline of a moderately familiar face.

"Nah," the man said, "They don't call me that anymore. I'm just plain old Bobby Alvarez now. He let loose of McCormick's arm entirely and gave his shoulder a cautiously friendly pat. "I thought that was you, Skid, but then I saw that other guy and I said _no way_ he's hanging out with a judge; he's a judge, right?"

"Retired."

"He's Hardcastle, right? I never forget a judge. Hey, _he's_ the one who sent you up. I remember you saying that."

Mark nodded glumly; he hated explaining this part. "I'm reformed," he said, hoping that would do for now. The long version tended to elicit odd looks from nearly everybody.

"Me _too_," Alvarez grinned even bigger. "I don't make the stuff anymore; hell, I don't even _drink_ it." Then the grin snapped out like a light turned off. "But Hardcastle _is_ here about the murder, right?"

Mark nodded, feeling a little cautious himself. He'd noticed another shape moving in from the shadows further up the alley, and heard a deeper voice say, "So the guy is a judge, huh?"

"We're friends of the dead woman's family," Mark said, in his most careful, non-judgmental tone. "We're just here to try and find out what happened—the truth, whatever that is." He kept his eyes on the nearer man. "Bobby? You said you're reformed, huh? All you guys are straight, now. You didn't have anything to do with this?"

Bobby nodded. McCormick could see his head moving. The guy further back seemed to go a little more rigid.

"Okay, do you have any idea who _might_ have done it? Any information that might help?" He left off all references to the sheriff, and the investigation, thinking he was pushing his luck as it was.

"Nah," Bobby exhaled softly. "We heard about it when everyone else did. Mendoza--" There was a sharp hiss from the shadows. "What the hell, he knows about Mendoza by now," Bobby said over his shoulder, then he turned back to Mark and continued, "He told the rest of us to get lost. But we aren't running out on him," his head was turned over his shoulder again, "are we, Axe?" The second hiss was louder and a little more disgusted.

"Shit, Bobby, why don't you just send 'em our business cards. Hell," the other man stepped forward. His face gave the nickname away, a sharp nose like a hatchet in the middle of features made craggy by the darkness and enough height that he loomed over the other two men.

"It's okay," Bobby reassured, "Skid's okay."

"It's Mark now, Bobby. Just Mark."

"Yeah, okay," the grin was back, which made McCormick doubt that the man had a clear grasp of the situation. "And Axe and me, we just wanted to keep an eye on things, for Mendoza, see what's going down."

Mark shook his head. "Well, I spotted you twice today, and that means Hardcastle probably did, too. And there's another guy over there who's _gonna_ spot you if you're still here tomorrow. His name is Patterson; he's not with us. He's with the Bureau of Land Management."

Bobby and Axe gave him matching puzzled looks.

"Don't ask." McCormick sighed. "I think you ought to give us a place where we can meet you--Mendoza, too, if he's willing. He's still around here, right?"

The silence got a little dense.

McCormick sighed again. "Okay, _don't_ trust me. Just hang out in the alley here until Sheriff Wannerman trips over you."

Axe edged forward, glowering at McCormick and nudging Bobby. "We oughta--"

"Nah, Skid's okay," Bobby interjected, though from his tone, it sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. "And we're _reformed_," he added, after a moment's thought. "We ain't done nothing' wrong."

"Maybe Louie, or Pete got, you know, carried away," Axe said sullenly.

_Oh, great, some are more reformed than others._ But out loud he just added, in reassuring tones, "But I gotta get back over there now," He jerked his chin in the direction of the motel. "If Hardcase wakes up and finds me gone, he's gonna call the Sheriff and who knows what all."

He edged out past Bobby, keeping his hands loose and non-threatening at his sides. He saw a moment of indecision pass over Axe's face, and then he was by him, too. He turned his back on both of them and kept his pace slow and calm and even, though he thought his breathing would surely give him away. _Hooch,_ that page in the catalogue was just a couple of short paragraphs, with an overall impression of more victim than victimizer, but Axe was entirely another matter. And frightened men were unpredictable at best.

He waited until he was past the back entrance to the alley, probably twelve feet from where the other two men were standing. "If you change your mind," he spoke without looking back, "Just leave a couple rocks on the back window sill of cabin five, that's _five_, got it? If you do that, I'll meet you back here the next night, midnight, okay? It's up to you." He shrugged once, half expecting to get tackled by Axe before he made it past the back of the Post Office.

But he wasn't, and, by the time he worked his way across the street and looked over to the alleyway again, he saw no shapes in the shadows. He took a couple of deep breaths and made his way to the bathroom window, easing it open with even more care than he'd used on the way out.

There was no graceful way to re-enter, but he did it with a minimum of noise. He was almost through when he heard the judge clear his throat.

"Dammit," he yelped, nearly dropping headfirst into the tub. He regained his balance and pulled his other foot free over the ledge. He looked up at the judge, standing just outside the bathroom door and scowling almost as much as he was. "You shouldn't scare a guy like that. I coulda _hurt_ myself."

Hardcastle crossed his arms and tapped his foot a couple of times. "After midnight it's called 'skulking'."

Mark stepped out of the tub and checked his watch. "Well, lucky for me it's still only eleven forty-five." He took the judge by the arm and steered him back into the other room. "I woulda used the door, but I think Patterson's the kind of guy who doesn't punch out . . . And I _didn't_ take the lock picks."

"I know, I checked," Hardcastle said grimly.

McCormick sighed. "I suppose I deserved that. But what the hell was I _supposed_ to do? I saw someone watching this place from across the street, next to the Post Office. I wanted to check it out."

"How 'bout waking me up next time? Or a note: 'Gone skulking, Post Office.' So I know where to start looking for the body."

Mark would've tried for glib himself, if he hadn't been at least somewhat worried that the outcome might've been just that, a few minutes ago. As it was, he sat down heavily on the chair that was turned out from the desk.

"Sorry. It was stupid." He shook his head. "I dunno, maybe I was feeling a little useless." He cocked his head up at the other man. "Skulking is what I _do_, Judge. That and go like stink." He smiled. "Everything else is your territory."

The judge sat down on the edge of his bed, rubbing his forehead wearily. Then he said, "Listen, kiddo, that's not true. That was _never_ true. I think you need to give yourself a little more credit." He paused long enough to convey sincerity. Then he added, with a mild grumble, "You're also pretty damn good at baiting Federal agents and throwing a monkey wrench into dinner conversation. You've got a lot of strong suits."

Mark smiled. He was pretty sure the lecture was over.

"So, who was the guy haunting the alley? Same one as this morning?" The judge asked.

"Probably. And this afternoon, too, but he got away from me then. His name's Hooch, or at least it was."

Hardcastle's eyebrows went up.

Mark went on, "That's 'cause if you gave him a dozen oranges and a few packets of sugar, he'd turn it into alcohol. Most of what I know about the science of distillery I learned from Hooch." McCormick shrugged at the judge's frown. "What can I say; when you're bored, _everything_ is interesting."

"You knew him? Do you know every ex-con in the four-state area?"

"Nah, just Quentin, class of 82'-83'. But, anyway, Hooch is reformed. He's Bobby Alvarez--God, I don't think anybody even knew he _had_ a real first name—and he was out there in the alley with somebody named 'Axe'--just that, no last name. They want you to know they're innocent."

"Yeah, well, nobody who was guilty would act that guilty," the judge murmured. "They're gonna come in and have a little talk with the authorities?"

"Sorry, Judge, I probably shoulda taken you along, but I don't think you could've squeezed through the window." He sighed, "Anyway, I wasn't persuasive enough." McCormick's shoulders slumped a little.

"Well," the judge scratched his head, "It's a start I suppose." Then he started to stretch out again. "You think maybe you can stay put the rest of tonight, so I can get some sleep? We got a lot to do in the morning."

"Yeah," Mark nodded glumly as he got up and went over to his own bed. "I think I've done all the damage I can for one day. Gotta save some monkey wrenches for tomorrow."

Chapter 8—Realignment

McCormick awoke that morning to a one-sided conversation—the judge dressed and sitting at the desk, using the phone. From the content and tone he guessed it was a report back to Bob Sturgis on the progress of the 'inquiry'. All skulking-related activities had been trimmed off and detailed information about the crime itself was being kept to a minimum.

Mark checked his watch—9:02. The judge had probably been waiting for the civilized hour of eight, Pacific, to make his report: a few more comments on when Hardcastle expected the body to be released, assurances that all would be being taken care of in due time, then goodbyes.

Mark rolled over as the receiver was being replaced in the cradle. "How's he holding up?"

The judge looked up from the phone. He shook his head. "Dunno. I'd like to get my hands on a copy of the Times today, see how much of this has gotten back to him."

"Maybe when we're over by the coroner," then he frowned as he sat up. "I know this is going to sound kinda callous, but do you think Mary Ellen's gonna let me back in the café, you know, being a felon and all? I'm hungry."

"Yeah, see," Hardcastle admonished him as Mark stepped into the bathroom, "now it doesn't seem like such a good idea, all that unvarnished truth, huh?" but the rest, if there was any more, was lost in the noise of the running shower.

00000

Whether or not he was persona non gratis at the café proved irrelevant, at least for breakfast. As they were stepping out into the still-tolerable morning heat, Mrs. Parsons stuck her head out of the door of her office and waved them over.

"Made some biscuits and gravy," she called out, after a hail. "I'm always making too many. Thought maybe you'd like to try some."

The judge's grin was not altogether feigned, though it was pretty apparent that Emmalee was offering bait and hoping for news in return. She led them both in and seated them at the table, showing no difference in her attitude toward Mark. So far, at least, Mary Ellen seemed not to be sending out an all-points bulletin.

"How are things going?" Mrs. Parson's asked, without much gentle beating around the bush.

Hardcastle smiled quietly and obtusely in return. "Met the sheriff." He dug into his food, leaving her on tenterhooks.

"Has he found those men yet?" Mrs. Parsons leaned forward, looking concerned.

"Not yet," the judge let his smile drop a little, "but he seems to have things well in hand."

"Then you'll be heading back?" Her crestfallen look spoke for itself—they were a source of income, as well as gossip.

"Well, not just yet," Hardcastle assured her. "The coroner hasn't released the body."

Emmalee tried, unsuccessfully, not to look overly pleased.

"And, anyway, the truck's got something wrong with the alignment," the judge squinted in McCormick's direction, staving off any disagreement. "May've done some damage when we hit that rut coming back here yesterday. You better take it over and have Ed look at it this morning."

Mark smiled blandly right back at the other two. "Right . . . Ed." He took another bite of biscuit.

"I'll just see if I can catch a ride with Mr. Patterson; I think we're going in the same direction," Hardcastle continued smoothly. The man in question was standing outside his cabin, now, studying his surroundings with subtle attention to the truck and cabin number five.

"Him?" Mrs. Parson's eyebrows went up. "Bureau of Land Management, my foot," she sniffed. "I think he's with the _National Enquirer_ . . . or maybe the CIA."

The two men were both staring at her. Hardcastle found his voice first, "The _CIA_?"

"Sure," Mrs. Parson's nodded. "Very hush-hush, whatever he is. He stayed here a few months ago."

"When? February, March?" the judge asked, trying to keep it a merely curious question.

Mrs. Parsons cocked her head and pondered briefly. "February, I think. Yes. I'm pretty sure." She got up from the table and went to the registration counter, leafing back through the book. "Here'tis," she smiled stabbing a finger down on the page." February 17th, stayed two nights. Acted just as spooky then, too. So, you know him? I wondered. He wanted the cabin right across from yours, too."

"We've met." Hardcastle kept it vague. He was wiping up the last of the gravy with a spare biscuit. "Probably should be moving on out of here. Looks like Mr. Patterson is just about ready to shove off, too."

Of course it looked like no such thing, but Mark had taken his cue as well, and both men were on their feet. Patterson glanced up sharply as the screen door opened and the other two emerged.

As soon as they were out of earshot of Mrs. Parsons, McCormick leaned in, speaking low. "Okay, so he can't stick with both of us if we split up, but what do you want me to do while you're hanging out with him?"

"Get the alignment checked," Hardcastle replied mildly, "like I said."

"But there's nothing _wrong_ with the alignment," McCormick's whisper had become a little more insistent.

"Well, there's plenty of ruts between here and Ed's shop. You can do something about that." Hardcastle frowned. "Just try not to make it _too_ expensive."

"Twenty-two hours," McCormick said flatly.

"Huh?" the judge glanced back at him.

"Time of arrival to first lie." Mark smiled, "Not a new personal record, by far, but still pretty fast."

Hardcastle shot him a look and then strode off, smiling at Patterson and giving the man a friendly wave. McCormick heard him repeating the story he'd just told Emmalee. He saw Patterson look startled, then suspicious, then heard him grudgingly acquiesce. A moment later the two older men climbed into Patterson's car, and were gone.

Mark was left scratching his head thoughtfully as he watched the dust of their departure settle back onto the gravel. Then he walked over to cabin number five, taking a moment to circle around and glance quickly at the rear window sill--nothing there. He stepped back to the front, and let himself in.

He felt around in the bottom of his bag, located the small leather case and took it out, placing it neatly between one of the folds of the newspapers. Then he carried the whole small stack with him out to the truck.

00000

"Real nice of you to help me out like this," Hardcastle said convivially to Patterson as they pulled out on to Main Street.

"No problem," the man replied stiffly, still glancing in the rearview mirror at McCormick. Patterson's eyes seem to narrow in suspicion as he took in the man, now walking casually back toward cabin five.

The judge watched him drag his eyes back to the road, still frowning with uncertainty. Hardcastle tried to steer them into smoother water. "I 'spose you've seen the place where the body was found?"

Patterson darted him a quick look. "Yes, not much there. They'd already moved the body." Then he segued sharply, "You aren't a member of the Arizona Bar, _too_, by any chance?"

"Nope," Hardcastle shrugged, "just California and Nevada."

Patterson didn't say 'good' out loud, but his shoulders seemed to relax just a little. "And you said you're a friend of the family?"

"Yes," Hardcastle replied quietly. "Dr. Sturgis, her uncle--he was her only family--we're very old friends."

"That's it, entirely?" Patterson seemed to be weighing the judge's words.

Hardcastle ignored the implied doubt. "I'm sure you've had time to do some background checking," he said with calm certainty.

"Hell," Patterson grumbled, "I did that _last _year. How's that Henley kid doing these days?"

"Attorney-client privilege," Hardcastle replied evenly.

"And that one," Patterson jerked his chin to the side, back in the direction of the motel. "Parole must be up by now; what's _he_ doing?"

"Law school."

"Shit," Patterson exhaled. "_Another_ one." He looked with mild disgust in Hardcastle's direction, leaving no doubt of the source of his unhappiness.

"Yeah, well, it's a nation of law, sorry about that." Hardcastle shrugged.

"Hmm," Patterson shook his head, "he may be marginally less dangerous behind a desk."

"I doubt it," the judge smiled.

00000

Mark took a circuitous route across town, avoiding Main Street and the sheriff's office, where Patterson and Hardcastle would undoubtedly be pulling up. He did not bother to seek out any potholes. He still wasn't in the mood to lie to Ed.

Ed's garage was near the other end of town and was already open, with one car up on the rack and two more nearby. The man himself was standing at the back, bending over a counter, studying something. He looked over his shoulder as the truck's tires crunched on gravel and McCormick pulled to a stop.

Mark couldn't tell his expression in the shadows of the repair bay, but a moment later Ed was wiping his hands on a dirty rag and walking out to meet him.

"Just wanted to thank you again for all your hospitality," Mark said, as he stepped down from the truck. "Hope I didn't upset your wife too much, the part about having done time." Mark cocked his head a little shyly. "Hardcastle says I ought to learn to keep my mouth shut. Anyway, I'm sorry if it bothered anybody."

Ed laughed. "Not me. I've known other people who went to prison. It happens."

McCormick nodded. "Well, seemed like Mary Ellen was a little, ah . . ."

"Bent out of shape?" Ed finished helpfully. "That really wasn't about you," he shrugged. "That's more about some other low-lifes she wishes I wouldn't hang out with."

McCormick mouthed an 'oh' and nodded one more time.

"You ever been married?" Ed asked

Mark gave him a quick negative shake.

Ed smiled. "Yeah, well, don't get me wrong, she's a wonderful girl but, ya know how sometimes you got it running pretty good, maybe a little rough in the idle, and you think you just need to put a little WD40 in the control valve, and you get under the hood and pretty soon you're down to the head gasket and you're thinking of swapping out the engine?"

"Ah . . . yeah." It was Mark's turn to smile.

"Well, that's what it's like to be married." Ed sighed. "Only _you're_ the engine, and it's _never_ just a little WD40 in the valve."

Mark crossed his arms and gave this some thought. "Yeah . . . but at least if you're married, she can't have you arrested for driving your own car."

"Is _that_ what happened to you?"

"Yup," Mark smiled grimly, "a car does not belong to the person who paid for it; it belongs to the person whose name is on the pink slip. I'm pretty clear on that, now. But, anyway, it _was_ insurance fraud."

"Who'd put you in jail for _that_?"

"Hardcastle. That's how we met."

Ed looked aghast. He blinked a couple times and sat himself back against the bumper of the truck. "But . . ."

"But it's a long story, and if I explain it all to you, you're gonna think one of us is crazy—maybe both."

00000

The rest of the short drive to the sheriff's office had been a quiet one. It was only when they were entering the building that Hardcastle asked the other man if he'd had a chance to view the body.

Patterson said, "Yes," and gave him a long, considering, sideward look. "If it makes you feel any better, the coroner says most of it was postmortem."

Hardcastle gave this a sharp nod, suppressing his twinge of surprise at Patterson's concern. "I'd already heard that."

"And whoever killed her seemed to know what he was doing."

"That's always a comfort to the family," Hardcastle said dryly.

Patterson shrugged. "Just thought you should know. Didn't look like some sort of killing frenzy to me."

"More like a ritual?" The judge asked, and he found himself slowing his steps.

"No," Patterson didn't move ahead, "more like efficiency. One cut, nothing tentative about it. Just deep enough." Patterson had come to a stop, just inside the lobby. He turned to face the judge. "She was bled out; she had to have been. He went clear through her left carotid."

"And not much blood on the scene?" Hardcastle had heard some of this from Wannerman yesterday, but Patterson's description was less hesitant.

"Not much at all, they said, just a few smears."

"Any other thoughts on who might have done it?" Hardcastle felt obligated to ask. "Someone with a medical background?"

"Or anyone who's ever hunted, or, hell, an embalmer, or someone who looked it up in a book. I don't know." Patterson shook his head. "I think it makes more sense to look for 'where' first. That'll be indisputable."

"Why's it so important?" Hardcastle asked.

"Find me the 'where' and I'll know why, and probably who. That's what you want to know, isn't it?" Patterson's look was steely.

"Are you asking for our help?"

Patterson's hesitation was so brief as to be almost imperceptible. "_Yours_," he said, "yes. Or at least not your interference."

Hardcastle eyebrows had risen for a moment. "I don't suppose you want to tell me why this is so important to you?" He cocked his head at the other man. "I mean, to the Bureau of Land Management."

Patterson's expression was a little grim. "Need-to-know basis. Sorry." He managed to convey just a hint of sincerity in the last word.

The judge frowned. "I suppose I'll have to settle for that . . . for now."

Chapter 9—Fieldtrips

From the state of marriage, and the vagaries of the California Penal Code, the conversation had taken a sharp left to the subject of Carlos Mendoza. McCormick had just let Ed talk, and talk he did.

The two men had been friends in high school. Mendoza's parents owned a small ranch south of town. After his father died, Carlos had cut loose, gone to Tucson, fallen in with a bad crowd. The next thing they heard, he'd wound up in Florence.

McCormick barely nodded, and said nothing to Ed's remark about it being 'only' for two years. "Then he came back here?"

"Yeah, when he got out. His mom was pretty sick. He said he felt real guilty about that," Ed shook his head. "That maybe his getting into trouble had made her worse. But it was cancer. I told him I didn't think you got cancer from worrying."

"And then she died, too?"

"Yeah, last year. And then guys started coming, a couple from Florence, some from Phoenix, later on even some from out-of-state. They stay out there, help Carlos run the ranch. They're raising sheep. It's pretty rustic."

"You've been out there?"

"Not lately, I mean back, before all this."

"He's not there now?" McCormick risked the question.

"Don't think so, otherwise Wannerman would've brought him in."

McCormick waited for a moment, gauging everything, not wanting to appear too eager. "So . . . have you seen him _since_all this?" He kept his eyes carefully on the other man, hoping to see the truth even if it wasn't spoken. To his surprise, it was.

"Yes . . . once," Ed admitted. "Kinda by accident. Thursday morning." Mark felt Ed's gaze on him, too. "I saw him on the road, south of here. He was out, walking; he does that a lot. I pulled over and asked him if he knew what'd happened. I don't think he lied to me. He looked pretty surprised."

"Did he know Professor Emory?"

"Might've met her. I didn't ask him that. She went all over the place. And she was real interested in the carvings up on the bluff."

"That 'Road to the Sun' thing?"

"That one and a bunch of others. And Carlos is always walking around up there." Ed nodded. "But he seemed really surprised to hear the news."

"And then?"

"He turned around and headed back the way he'd come."

"Toward the ranch?"

"Yeah. But he wasn't there later on when the sheriff went out there. That's what I heard."

"Does anybody else know you're the one who warned him off?"

"No," Ed looked worried. "I need to know, what I did, is that, like, being an accessory?"

"I thought you said you didn't think he did it."

"Well . . . no, but everybody else thinks he did."

"You're not an accessory. All you did was tell him there'd been a murder and he was under some suspicion. That's why you headed out that way that morning, right?"

Ed nodded, still looking a little guilty.

"Well, if he _was_ the murderer," McCormick reasoned quietly, "then you didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. And if he's _not_, then you can't be an accessory to anything, right?"

"Oh . . . yeah," Ed smiled with relief.

"On the other hand, you better keep the part about going out there on purpose to yourself. The sheriff might call that 'interfering with an investigation'."

Ed swallowed once. "The hell with Wannerman, if _Mary Ellen_ found out . . ."

"Yeah, and that." McCormick smiled. He paused again, but felt like he was on firmer ground. "Any idea where he might have gone, after he left you?"

Ed made a vague gesture with his right hand, taking in a sweep of the red rock bluffs off toward the horizon, south of the station. "Up there, most likely. We used to go up there, back when we were kids. There's some caves, lots of places to hide out, where you can see and not be seen."

"For how long?" Mark asked. "What about water?"

"This time of year? There's not much. He would have to carry some. There's one spring over there; isn't even enough to make a crick. But it's pretty reliable."

"The sheriff must know about that."

"Maybe, but I think he, and mostly everyone else, think Mendoza's halfway to Tucson by now, maybe Mexico."

McCormick half sat on the bumper of the GMC, scanning the southern horizon. He was thinking of the promise he'd made to the judge, and weighing that against the fragile balance of trust that he seemed to have achieved with Ed. He didn't think it would support hauling another person into the arrangement right now.

"Could you show me where the spring is?" He kept the request neutral, not spelling it out any further. Then he added, just for additional ballast, "I don't think he did it, either."

Ed exhaled. "Yeah, I can show you. You wanna drive?"

00000

Wannerman didn't seem surprised to see the other two men arrive together. He managed a polite smile. "Suppose you want to run over to the Talcott place, first?" He addressed this to the judge, then, in an aside to Patterson, "You want to bother making the trip a second time?"

Patterson kept his own expression polite. "Sure, won't hurt. Don't have any other hot leads to run down, do we? Anything new come in overnight?"

Wannerman shook his head. "Coroner called this morning. Said his pathologist is finished, ready to release the body. I sent my deputy over to pick up the final report and the photos, thought it'd save you a trip down there," he was facing Hardcastle again. "Unless you insist on seeing it yourself."

'_It_.' Hardcastle gave the sheriff a hard look then, after a pause, he shrugged. "Not sure what purpose that would serve. I might have some questions for him, once I see the report."

"Fine then, fine," Wannerman grabbed his hat off the bookshelf near the door and led them out.

If he was still unhappy with Patterson's accompaniment, he was doing a fair job of masking it, Hardcastle thought. The sheriff looked resigned to his fate as guide to a bunch of crime tourists.

"Any luck finding that Mendoza fellow?" Hardcastle inquired mildly, after they'd settled into the sheriff's car.

Wannerman shook his head. "Nope. Ran by his place again yesterday evening, nobody home. They've all scattered. Put his name out statewide: 'Person of interest'. No leads yet."

"You think he might still be in the area?" Patterson asked.

"Not if he's smart," Wannerman replied tersely. "He ought to know by now that if he's gonna try this hard to avoid talking to me, he'd better do it right."

They were at the south end of town now. Hardcastle cast a quick glance at Ed's garage as they drove past. It looked closed up and the GMC was not in sight. He brought his head forward quickly, but it looked like Patterson had already noticed. He was frowning.

"Must've been a quick job," Hardcastle smiled thinly. "Probably headed back to the motel already."

"Wanna go back and pick him up?" Patterson asked dryly.

"Nah, let him get caught up on his sleep. He was up kinda late last night."

00000

McCormick negotiated the road that had become little more than two dusty ruts stretching off toward the bluff. There was more grass here, and from time to time they saw a scattering of cattle. They'd passed through two fenced sections, marked by grates, no other barriers.

"Private land?" McCormick asked.

"Yeah, this is either Talcott's, or maybe the Montgomery spread; I'm not sure where the line is, but they own mostly everything south of town.

"Talcott's? Are we near where the body was found?"

"Oh, nah." Ed gestured away to the southeast. "He's got a big place. That was down in one of the washes, way off there."

McCormick squinted through the dust towards where he was pointing. "Lonely out here, a long way from nothing. I'm surprised they found her so fast."

"It was the vultures," Ed said soberly. "A guy like Talcott, living out here all his life, he'd notice something like that right away."

"You know him?"

"Not much, know his son, Nick. He's one year older than me."

"Oh . . . Nick. The sheep killer."

"Huh?" Ed gave him an odd look and Mark immediately regretted his glibness.

"There was something in the paper, a truck hitting some sheep."

"Oh, yeah," Ed laughed, but it sounded a little forced, "I remember. But that was last_ winter_. "

"Back issues." McCormick shrugged. "I couldn't sleep last night."

"Oh, then I definitely recommend the _Free Press_. Works every time for me." Ed's smile had become a little more natural, but he still had that odd look. "It's funny though, I started ragging him, just joking and all, when he brought the truck in to be fixed. I remember now."

"Yeah, well, _sheep_."

"Uh-huh, it's not like they exactly take you by surprise," Ed shook his head. "But, anyway, I remember he got real tense, almost angry with me. I figured his dad must've already given him a hard time about the damage."

"How much damage_ does_ a sheep do to a truck?" McCormick asked curiously.

"Well, not as much as hitting a steer. Sheep are lower down. But he said this was three of them. He must've fallen asleep at the wheel, that's all I could figure. There," he pointed ahead and off to the right. "That's about as close as we can get, up there between those rocks."

They were within a hundred feet of the rise. Dull red rocks, nearly as big as the truck, were strewn about. McCormick shut down the engine and opened his door, shading his eyes and gazing up dubiously at the wind-worn cliffs above.

"How often do rocks fall off?" he asked.

"Oh," Ed pondered. "I wouldn't build a house down here, but I'd feel pretty safe camping over night. The spring's over there." He pointed uphill.

Mark followed him, scrambling over the sun-baked red gravel and up a slope to a spot where the rock was a deeper shade of red. There were no other signs of human life; even if someone had passed through an hour ago, there wouldn't have been any footprints. It wasn't until they got within a few feet of it that he heard a quiet trickle and saw the glisten of water on part of the rock. Mark turned around, back to the cliff, and surveyed their surroundings--grass and scrub, under a blanket of heat distortion, off to the next rise of cliffs in the west.

"There's a path up there," Ed said. Mark turned again to face him. "It's a scramble, but you can get to the top of the bluff."

Mark walked a short way up through what looked to be a water runoff. He looked back over his shoulder--even from this short distance up, he could now see much further.

"Even if he _was_ here," Mark shook his head as he started back down the path, "he would've seen the truck coming a half mile off.

He took one last look up into the cliffs above him and, with the glance up, mis-stepped on some loose gravel and started to slide. He flailed out to the side, reaching for a gnarled root to brace himself.

"Shit," the sudden sharp pain in his wrist made him snatch his hand back, and finish his fall. "Damn." He was sprawled at the bottom of the wash, clutching his left wrist with his other hand.

"What the hell?" Ed scrambled back up toward him. "Lemme see." Mark let go gingerly and they both peered down at the two puncture wounds, just above his wrist, not even an inch apart. "Shit," Ed seconded the motion. "Did you hear anything?"

Mark shook his head, grimacing. "Didn't see it, either."

"Shh," Ed said, and they both heard it a second later, a sound like rustling dry leaves, and then a faint dry rattle.

"Oh, _now_ it says something," Mark clutched at his wrist again, making a face. "Are we supposed to cut it open or something?"

"Nah," Ed shook his head again. "We're supposed to get you to a doctor. And we're only ten minutes from town. How do you feel?" He frowned.

"Like I'm in Arizona again," Mark sighed, and let the younger man help him to his feet.

"You've got rattlers in California, too."

"Not in Malibu." Mark fished for his keys and handed them to Ed. "You can drive."

Ed unlocked the door and gave him an unceremonious shove up into the passenger seat. He whipped a slightly grease-stained rag out of his back pocket and made an impromptu tourniquet a few inches above the bite.

"Might not help but it won't hurt," he said.

Mark held the cinch in place and leaned his head back against the rest, trying to figure out how he felt. _Scared? Sweaty? _Hard to tell what, if any of that, was venom, or just fear.

"How long does it take before--?"

"Depends." Ed said abruptly as he climbed in the driver's seat and started the truck. "God, I don't know. I've been climbing all over these rocks since I was a kid and I've never got bit. Are you just unlucky, or what?"

Mark considered that for a moment and then said, "Might be . . . yeah, I guess I'd have to say yes."

00000

Wannerman knelt alongside a narrow crevasse, only two feet wide and perhaps three deep. A flashlight wasn't necessary. "There," he pointed down, "her head was at that end, see that stain there? That's all the blood there was. She was lying three-quarters face-down, all we could see was her back. That's where the mark was." He got to his feet again. "A few broken bits of brush along through here, like she was carried up, then set down, and rolled into the spot."

"No footprints anywhere along the way?" Hardcastle looked up and down the sloping, rock surface that led up the wash.

"All rock, till you get down to the bottom. And that's hardpan, couldn't see much of anything, even Talcott's boots, and he'd just walked there.

"Tire-tracks?"

"Talcott's, and those were blowing away even before I got here. Anything from the night before would have been already gone." Wannerman made a face. "We did check Talcott's car; in case you were wondering. No traces of blood there."

Patterson grunted once, "Well, he'd have been a fool to come and report the murder. Might've been months before anyone else thought to look out here."

"I'd like to talk to him." Hardcastle said quietly, "just ask him a few questions."

"Yeah, I told him you might. He's been real patient, you know. Talked to me twice. Talked to Mr. Patterson here. He might be running a little low on patience by now. People don't much like other people interfering with their land out here. They can get tetchy."

"Then he should wanna know who dumped a dead woman on his property, wouldn't ya think?" Hardcastle's eyebrow went up speculatively.

"I'm just asking you to be mindful; he's just a witness, and he was doing his duty, finding and reporting a dead woman, that's all." Wannerman shook his head. "Hank's had a bad year; wife sick and all."

One eyebrow stayed up in question.

"His wife, Lindy, had some sort of stroke; that was maybe five months ago."

"Lindy who owned the café?"

"Yeah, the same," Wannerman gave him a puzzled look.

"Mary Ellen mentioned her being sick, that's all," Hardcastle explained.

"You know the Davises?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Just met 'em, nice folks."

Wannerman was giving him a speculative look. "Yeah, they are. Lotta nice folks around here." He squinted at both his visitors. "Probably catch Hank over by his house, that's a little further up here." He shepherded them back to the car.

They drove up the road a short way, and turned in under an arch that reminded the judge vaguely of Gull's Way, only this was a working ranch, with a modest-sized single-story home amid other, utilitarian buildings. Out front, on the porch, was a reedy man in a straw Stetson, resting his gnarled hands on the railing and looking at the approaching vehicle with grim anticipation.

"Thought up some more questions?" he grumbled loudly, as Wannerman started to open his door, but the man fell silent as the judge climbed out of the passenger side. "You must be the feller from Los Angeles," Talcott said. "Sorry about what happened. Didn't 'spect you so soon." Then he looked at Wannerman again. "Don't know what more there is to say."

"Name's Hardcastle," the judge offered a hand across the railing which was taken, after only a moment's hesitation. The shake was firm and businesslike. "I just wanted to ask you a few things, for the family's sake." He'd kept his voice low, calm, but firm.

Talcott seemed to settle down a bit, gesturing them all up onto the porch, out of the sun. "I told him," there was a sharp nod in Wannerman's direction, "everything I saw. Horrible thing, someone cutting up a person like that."

Hardcastle nodded his agreement. ""And you didn't see anyone unusual around here, the day before? No strange cars or trucks?"

Talcott started to look disgusted again. "See, now, I already told him all of this."

"Yeah, I know," Hardcastle shrugged a little and smiled. "We're always hoping something will shake loose, after a person's had a chance to think about it for a while."

"I haven't forgot anything."

"Is Nick around? Maybe _he_ saw something?" Hardcastle left the smile plastered in place.

Talcott's face underwent a subtle transformation. He darted a glance at Wannerman, as though he was accusing him of something, then back at the judge.

"My son's not here. Out checking on some stock over west of here. He didn't say he saw anyone."

Hardcastle nodded, looking as if he fully accepted this. "How about this Mendoza character?" he added. "You know him?"

"Not much. Knew his father some. The boy's gone to sheep I hear." The last part was said in a tone of indictment, an offense that ought to land a man someplace worse than Florence.

Hardcastle persisted, "Anybody see _him_ around here on Wednesday?"

Talcott narrowed his eyes. "Nope, not him neither." The rancher crossed his arms, looking just about done with his company. "I'd invite you folks in but my wife's poorly and needs her rest."

"No problem, Mr. Talcott," Wannerman tipped his hat back an inch and dragged a handkerchief across his brow. "I think we're just about done here."

Hardcastle nodded too, and stepped off the porch, following the sheriff and Patterson over to the car. He threw a last look over his shoulder at the other man and said, "I hope you wouldn't mind asking your son about seeing anyone." He smiled. Talcott scowled and turned to go inside. Through one of the windows, further along, Hardcastle thought he caught a glimpse of a pale face. Then it, too, was gone.

The judge lowered himself into the seat. Wannerman turned to him and said, "How'd you know he _had_ a son? I didn't mention him."

"Something in the paper, it mentioned a Nick Talcott. I didn't know who he was. Henry, over there, filled in the son part. How old is he?"

"Oh," Wannerman pursed his lips, "twenty-three, maybe, or thereabouts. I questioned him, too. He said he didn't see anything, but he was down on the southern part of the ranch all day Wednesday. His father confirmed that."

"You checked _his _car, too, I suppose?"

"A truck, yeah. It was real clean."

Hardcastle grunted, then, after a moment, he added, "Felt like I wandered into a John Wayne movie there for a moment, cattlemen against sheep guys."

"Oh, that? Hell, if you told Talcott you were gonna raise Angus instead of shorthorns, he'd be just as testy about it. All these guys think there's only one right way to do things."

Just as he pulled out onto the road, the radio crackled to life. Wannerman answered the dispatcher, "Watcha got? Over."

A click and a bit of static, then the clerk again. "Dr. Sandoval says he might be calling the medivac chopper. Just wanted you to know. Over."

"What the hell happened? Over."

"Ed Davis brought in a tourist with snakebite. Didn't say how bad. They're at the clinic now. Over."

"Dammit." That was Hardcastle, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Your guy was with Davis this morning?" Wannerman asked.

"Yeah," the judge was looking at the approaching outskirts of town with anxious trepidation.

Wannerman grimaced. "Sandoval's good. Sees a lot of this kind of thing. They keep antivenin at the clinic." To the dispatcher he said, "Be there in five. Over and out."

"He hates snakes," Hardcastle said, a little distractedly.

"He was getting the alignment checked," Patterson added, pointedly.

"Well, they practically crawl down Main Street when it gets hot out," Wannerman said. "Sandoval'll fix him up, and if he can't, he'll ship him out to Phoenix.

Chapter 10—Observation

His arm was hanging down below the level of the examining table, taped to a padded board. An IV was already running in his other arm. McCormick was resisting the urge to lean over and take a peek. Sandoval, a compact man of about thirty, with a cheerful disposition, had asked him more questions than he knew the answers to, including not being able to provide a description of the snake.

Mark was glad that Ed was equally at a loss--"Didn't see it, just heard it." The only thing they were both sure about was the time, and now, with nearly an hour elapsed; the doctor was starting to look positively optimistic.

"Hardly any bleeding," he leaned over to study the punctures again, "and practically no discoloration around the wounds. No swelling. And your blood count looks good. I'd say we're dealing with a minimal envenomation. Are you always this lucky, Mr. McCormick?"

Mark leaned over and looked at his arm. It still looked like an arm. He leaned back and exhaled. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Well, I'm still on the fence about antivenin. The stuff has risks of its own. I think we can get away without it in your case. But I'll need to watch you a while longer."

Voices in the clinic's anteroom interrupted this: Wannerman saying, "Doc? How's it going?" and the door opening inward a moment later.

Behind him was Hardcastle, looking worried. Mark tried to dispel that with a grin and a quick wave from the IV arm, only to encounter a stern, "Don't," from Sandoval. "I said no moving; that meant either arm."

"He's okay?" the judge wasn't grinning back. The question was directed at the doctor.

"About as okay as one can be, after a bite from a pit viper." Sandoval frowned, "A more specific diagnosis is not possible because nobody bothered to take a _look_ at the snake." He shook his head and picked up the antivenin vials, still in powdered form, and moved them back to their place on the shelf behind him.

Patterson had squeezed in behind the other two and gave McCormick a quick look. From there his piercing gaze switched to Ed, where he seemed to sense a little less agility.

"How'd it happen?" he asked abruptly.

Ed barely flinched. "Aw, you know, this time of the year they come right up in the weeds out back. You know that old Chevy I've got there, Sheriff?" Ed turned his head to take in the other man. "Mark here wanted to see it. Put his hand down to take a look under the chassis. Bang. Got him right on the wrist. Must've gone under there to get a little shade."

Mark was grinning shamelessly now, the grin of a man who doesn't have to lie because someone else is doing it for him. Hardcastle looked too relieved to scowl; that would come later.

But Patterson was still on the scent. He kept his eyes on Ed. "What time'd it happen? We didn't see the truck over there when we drove by this morning."

Mark's grin froze. He cast a quick glance at Ed. Advance preparation could only cover so many contingencies, and he hadn't been entirely at his best as a coach on the way here in the truck.

But Ed was in his element now, smiling broadly and asking, "What time was that?"

Patterson hesitated. "'Bout nine, I'd say."

"Oh, nine? Mark? That'd be about when we took the truck out for a test, huh? So you could show me what was wrong with it."

Mark caught the question under the question and replied smoothly, "Yeah, Hardcastle was going on about the alignment but," he tuned his head a little, " honest, Judge, we drove it a ways and neither one of us could tell." There was something immensely satisfying, McCormick thought, about sliding that last piece of the story into place without so much as a fib.

The two younger men were in pretty good alignment by this time, too, and Patterson backed off. Hardcastle, watching the whole exchange from the other side of the table, with the apparent appreciation that this sort of choreography deserved, exhaled, and then covered it with a quick question. "No medivac? He doesn't need a hospital?"

"I feel pretty good, Judge."

Hardcastle and Sandoval silenced him with almost matching looks. Mark settled down against the backrest.

"I want to observe him for another hour or so. If he continues to do well, then no antivenin, and he'll be released. You'll need antibiotics, though," Sandoval looked back down at the man on the cart. "They're still deep punctures. They tend to get infected."

Wannerman nodded once. "Okay, then. I'll fill out a report later." He glanced down at his watch. "Think Mary Ellen's got any of that stew left today, Ed?"

"Probably so," Ed replied. "She made a triple batch."

"Patterson, you in? Ed?"

Patterson was neither in nor out, but seemed to be waiting for a signal of the judge's intentions.

Ed smiled. "She'll skin me if I don't show up."

Hardcastle finally said, "I'll stay here, keep the patient company. Tell Mary Ellen to save me a bowl of that chili."

Patterson frowned, obviously trying to avoid the obvious. He finally allowed himself to be drawn out of the room with the other two men.

This time Hardcastle's exhalation was clearly audible. Mark winced, not sure if Sandoval's presence, and the two holes in his arm, were going to be enough to ward off full-bore judicial wrath.

The tension was apparent enough that Sandoval admonished, "No excitement," and Hardcastle settled back down, pulling up a chair and looking merely stern.

"I'm okay . . . _really_," Mark dropped the grin, and every bit of pretense, and was trying for very sincere, even though he thought _not_ being okay was a stronger negotiating position right now.

The judge gave him a very fixed look. McCormick's sincerity never wavered.

"How was _your_ morning?" Mark said, finally breaking the impasse.

"Not as interesting as yours, apparently," Hardcastle harrumphed. "I thought I told you _not _to go car shopping without me. You have this tendency to make impulse purchases."

"Oh," Mark smiled, "but, Judge, this was _exactly_ what I was looking for."

"Well, then you come find _me_. That's what we agreed you'd do, right?"

"Yeah," Mark drawled it out, "but, Judge, Ed was real attached to the Chevy, barely wanted to show it to me. I figured by the time I chased you down, he'd change his mind."

"And look what happened," Hardcastle grimaced. "And I'll bet you never even got a close look at the car."

"Well, no," McCormick admitted. "But it was a _snake_, dammit. It could have been _anywhere_. The _car_ wasn't dangerous."

At this last, somewhat more emphatic statement, Sandoval looked up from the chart he was writing on, with a puzzled expression on his face. The other two men looked at him blandly and, after a moment, the doctor shook his head once and went back to his work.

00000

It was two o'clock before the doctor sprang McCormick, and that was mostly because he was becoming an increasingly bad patient.

"I'm fine. I'm _hungry_," he insisted.

Sandoval inspected the wound one more time, then bandaged it and pulled out the IV. "The clinic's not usually open on Saturday. I won't be back in here until Monday morning. If you start having problems, you'll need to call me at home."

Mark nodded. He was already sitting up. He ignored the head rush and steadied himself surreptitiously on the table's edge. He really did feel fine. _Really_. He felt bad about not getting a look at the Chevy, though. He hopped down off the table and slipped his shirt on.

Sandoval had taken out a sling and was arranging it on him. "No unnecessary activity. Keep the arm still as much as possible. If you start to see swelling, or bruising, call me. Understand?"

Mark nodded, and adjusted the sling a little. The doctor handed him a prescription.

Hardcastle took it out of his hand. He was giving him a close once-over. He apparently came up to scratch; the judge gave him a gentle nudge in the direction of the doorway. Once they were outside, and under the pretense of a supporting hand under the elbow, Hardcastle moved in closer. The question didn't even need to be asked.

Mark dropped his voice, even with no one in earshot. "Not a sign of him. Nothing. But here's something weird: we were on, or very close to, _Talcott _property--didn't get very far, though. How 'bout you?"

"Met the man himself. He's a first-class curmudgeon."

"Coming from you, that's high praise indeed," McCormick smiled briefly, then he asked, "but is he a murderer? Or does he know someone who is?"

"Dunno. He was pretty tense. He's got a lot on his plate, though. Got the impression the son might be avoiding me."

"Nick? The sheep assassin?"

"How late did you stay up last night?"

"All the way back to January. Ed knows him, too. And I'll bet Nick knows Mendoza."

"And Talcott's wife is Lindy."

"You're kidding," Mark said, turning to stare at the judge. "This _is_ the damn Twilight Zone. I'll bet some of 'em know the snake, too." He shook his head.

They were in front of the café, now. Through the window he could see Ed standing at the counter, leaning forward, talking intently to his wife. At one of the tables sat Wannerman and Patterson, lingering over pie and coffee. There were no other customers.

Hardcastle pushed open the door. The bell tinkled. Too late, Mark recollected his faux pas of the previous night. He stepped in a little behind the judge, smiling wryly. He kept his head down a bit, avoiding eye contact with Mary Ellen.

He was being nudged into a seat at the table next to Wannerman. The look from the far side of the counter was a touch frosty but slightly off-center, as though Mary Ellen, too, was not making eye contact with him. It took him a moment to calculate the trajectory, and then he glanced sideways at the recipient, who'd sat down next to him and was exchanging greetings with the sheriff.

"Ah, Judge?" he began, but that got swallowed up in the general inquiries from the sheriff and Patterson. He nodded and smiled and assured everyone that the snake would probably die first.

Then Mary Ellen was at the table standing across from him, looking concerned. "I wondered if Dr. Sandoval was ever going to let you go. I should've brought something over to you."

The words were clearly being directed solely at McCormick, who smiled quickly at her and then past her, in the direction of Ed, with a more questioning arch of his eyebrows. In return he got a shrug and both palms up and spread a little to the sides, that, and a chagrined look.

"Chili, right?" Mrs. Davis asked solicitously, still pretty focused on Mark.

"Ah . . . yes," Mark said hesitantly. "How 'bout you, Judge?"

Hardcastle was frowning slightly. It would've been hard to miss the signals. He nodded once. Then he gave McCormick a look as Mary Ellen went into the back to fetch the food. Ed had followed his wife out. Mary Ellen's sibilant, and none-too-discreet voice, echoing slightly against the tiled kitchen, carried easily. 'His _own_ car? That's just not _right_.'

Mark dropped his own voice. "All I _said_ was--"

But he didn't get any further in his explanation before the Davises were back, carrying one bowl each, with Ed relegated to serving the judge.

Mark smothered an altogether inappropriate grin and kept his eye on his food, letting Wannerman and the judge talk around him. The sheriff had passed over a file folder containing the pathologist's report from the coroner's office. The judge got lost in that quickly enough.

Half-way through the bowl of chili, Mark excused himself, "Too much IV," and slipped out of his seat, heading for the men's room.

He caught Ed, off by himself for a moment while Mary Ellen was fetching more coffee.

"Um, I think you may have overshot a little in the exoneration department."

"Oh, _that_ . . . sorry," Ed said sheepishly. "I just told her what you told me. Mary Ellen gets notions sometimes."

"Well," Mark looked back over his shoulder, hoping she wouldn't get the notion to spill hot coffee on the judge; he dropped his voice, "could you maybe tell her it's been almost seven years, and we get along fine now, we have for a long time, and," he winced as she passed by that end of the table, carrying the pot rather casually, "I'd kinda like to take him home in one piece?"

Ed swallowed once and nodded. Mark strolled back to the table. Hardcastle looked up at him.

"You okay?" the judge asked, as Mark slipped back into his seat.

"Yeah, what next?"

Hardcastle frowned. "Next, I'm running you back to the motel. The sheriff's got an idea of some more places he wants to take a look at, some caves and stuff, south of town. We're going with. That doc said you were supposed to take it easy; no climbing around."

'We' was obviously the judge and Patterson. Mark had a notion just where the caves might be. He flashed the judge a look. "Just be careful of snakes."

Patterson leaned over and smiled. "But they're mostly in town, I heard."

"Plenty of snakes everywhere," Mark replied tightly.

Hardcastle nodded once, thoughtfully. Then he added, "And I'll have to take that prescription of yours over to the county seat; there's no pharmacy here," which McCormick easily read as: _I'm taking the truck, so don't even think about gallivanting around while I'm gone._

"No gallivanting," McCormick sighed wearily, half to himself. The judge gave him an odd look.

"Come on, let's get you home."

00000

The ride back to the Pine Lodge was a quiet one, despite this being only the second time he and the judge had managed to shake loose from Patterson since this morning. Hardcastle had arranged to meet the other two men back at the sheriff's office after he'd finished his errands, and it was only the limited size of the truck that had kept Patterson from volunteering to accompany them.

The judge said nothing about Mary Ellen's peculiar behavior. Undoubtedly he'd figure that one out all by himself and probably his version was worse than the real thing, but Mark didn't feel up to talking about it.

Truth was, he felt like crap. _If this is a minor envenomation . . ._ he stole another surreptitious look inside the sling. Maybe slightly more swollen, nothing dramatic. He sure as hell wasn't going to spend the rest of the day staring at the ceiling of the clinic.

"You okay?" Hardcastle asked, glancing sideways at him, and then looking down at the sling. "Do we need to call Sandoval?"

"No," Mark insisted. "Looks fine, see? Just tired, that's all. Busy day."

"Busy night."

"Yeah, that, too."

The judge pulled in at cabin number five and Mark climbed out, grateful to see Mrs. Parson's office door closed. The Oldsmobile that had been parked out back the past two days was gone. _Must be running errands. _He turned around and reached back into the truck, gathering the stack of newspapers that had been pushed to the floor earlier.

Then he reached up and popped the glove compartment. Mark saw the judge's eyebrows rise a little bit as he pulled out the small leather case and shoved it down in among the papers, before he picked the whole bundle up.

"You were planning on using _those_ today, too?"

"Nope," McCormick tucked the bundle under the sling temporarily, while he dug in his pocket for the motel key. "I just wanted them out of the room, while Mrs. Parsons did the housekeeping this morning. He gave a quick gesture toward the still-open glove compartment and the judge's gun.

"Good thinking." The judge slammed it shut with a solid bang. "Now go take a nap . . . please.

"I will; I promise." There could be no doubting the sincerity in his tone right now. He even believed himself.

Even with his back turned, he was aware that Hardcase was watching him as he strolled, as casually as possible, to the door of the cabin. He unlocked it. One last "Okay?" from that direction. He nodded, and waved the judge away with his free arm as he stepped inside.

Once inside the cool, dim interior, Mark let out a sigh and leaned back against the door. His wrist burned like hell but he still didn't think it was worth hauling himself over to the clinic again. He waited patiently until he'd heard the truck pull out; then he waited several minutes more.

McCormick walked into the bathroom and stepped into the tub, coaxing the window up a couple inches with his good hand. He didn't have to raise it more than that; the two stones were readily visible, and under them a folded piece of paper. He took this and pushed the stones off the sill.

_Nine o'clock. By the water,_ the note read.

Chapter 11—Errands

Hardcastle watched the younger man with some concern as he walked away. He figured some of the cocky ebullience from earlier was wearing off along with the adrenalin. _Good, he'll stay put and do as he's told for once._

Twenty-five minutes over to the county seat, drop off the prescription, pick up a copy of the LA Times, if there was one to be had, and then he'd give the pathologist from the coroner's office a call. He had just a couple of questions. With luck, he could be back in Dry Mesa in under an hour and a half. He figured Patterson would convince the sheriff to wait at least that long for him. The man had to be peeved just to be letting have _this_ much unsupervised time.

00000

McCormick pulled the covers down and propped the spare pillow next to him for his arm. He lay down and contemplated the note one more time. The only water that made any sense was the spring, and that meant Mendoza, or at least Hooch, knew of their fieldtrip this morning. But he, or they, must've moved off fast when the truck approached. They apparently didn't know about the snake.

Then they left the message, a change of heart?--And pretty soon now, the sheriff would be beating the bushes out there. Not much he could do about that. Mendoza would draw whatever conclusions he wanted from that chain of events, but the chances of him being caught unaware seemed slim.

Mark looked at his watch: three-forty. Hardcastle wouldn't approve of him going out there alone tonight, even if 'alone' meant him _and _Ed. Hell, under the present circumstances, the judge would probably insist he stay back _here_, invoking the 'no climbing around' rule.

But if Hardcastle tried to go, how would he avoid dragging Patterson into it? That man was a barnacle. No, in this case it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.. _Thank God I have time for a nap._ He rolled over and set the alarm clock for seven-thirty.

00000

The pharmacist had pointed him to the pay phone and a rack of out-of-town newspapers. One copy of the Saturday Times left—it wasn't front page news there, either; that was an article on Reagan meeting with his Security Council about Iran. The murder was relegated to the middle of the Metro section: "Popular Professor Slain in Arizona—Investigation Continues". The details were mercifully scanty. Hardcastle heaved a sigh of relief. They had time, then, and right now he felt like they needed it.

He rattled his pocket for change and walked over to the pay phone. He didn't expect to find anyone in the coroner's office on a Saturday, but he'd managed to pry a phone number for the pathologist from Wannerman.

Miracle of miracles, proving to the judge that he was _still_ in a relatively small town, Dr. Meaker answered his own phone. Hardcastle launched himself on the sea of collegial cooperation with a few well-placed compliments concerning Meaker's efficiency in getting a report out, then he offered an accurate précis, based on his lunch-time reading.

Meaker seemed pleased, if not outright flattered. He seemed to accept the next question without the slightest reservation. "'Anything else unusual?' Well, I think the findings were fairly strange in themselves." Then there was a pause, a breath taken at the other end of the line. "Oh, there was one thing that struck me odd."

Hardcastle was holding his own breath, not wanting to do anything to stifle the flow of recollection.

"When I unzipped the bag, yes, I remember. I thought for a second that the paperwork had gotten mixed up . . . that maybe they put Dr. Emory's papers with a drowning victim. There was a faint odor of chlorine, when I first opened the bag. It was as if she'd been in a pool."

"Any other evidence of that?"

"None, wouldn't be likely, anyway. I estimated the time of death as sometime late the previous day. Of course the body _was _found unclothed_."_

"And," Hardcastle frowned, "no sign of sexual assault."

"None, none whatsoever."

"And the chlorine?"

"A brief impression, it passed." The judge could almost hear the other man shrugging. "She was a very clean corpse. Practically no blood, just a small clot adhering to the neck wound. I would say someone washed her, post-mortem."

"With _bleach_?" Hardcastle asked, with some disbelief. "What the hell _for_?"

"My guess would be to remove the blood, but I'm a pathologist, not one of those profiling experts. It does seem a little extreme."

Hardcastle hesitated a moment, trying to frame his next question in a way that would seem least offensive.

"In . . . cases like _this_, where the cause of death--"

"Exsanguination."

"Yes, where it's pretty apparent," Hardcastle rubbed the bridge of his nose, "do you spend much time looking for whatever else there might be wrong?"

"Co-morbidities?"

"Ah, yes."

"Alcohol, drugs, they were tested for. There were no other obvious organ pathologies or trauma. Oh, she was a little hyperemic."

"Hyper--?"

"Flushed."

"Like sunburn?"

"Or carbon monoxide, or cyanide," Meaker replied briskly. "We checked for both; we found neither. So, yes, maybe sunburn . . . but all over."

"Like radiation burns?"

There was a long and profound silence from the other end of the line, and then, "Well . . . we don't routinely check for _that_. Any particular reason?"

"Just a thought."

"I could, um . . . I think the police department has some Geiger counters, civil defense."

"Might want to," Hardcastle said quietly. "Before you release the body, only a precaution."

"Won't detect gamma exposure, though, if that's what we're talking about," Meaker had regained his feet in the conversation, "only residual particles."

"I don't know which we might be talking about. It's a long shot. Probably something else entirely," Hardcastle added, half to himself.

"Something_ else_?"

"Toxins, biologic weapons--" Hardcastle became aware that he was talking to silence again. He added, apologetically. "I'm not sure about any of this. Just a hunch."

"Based on--?"

"Who showed up to investigate."

"Oh." Another moment of silence. Hardcastle could almost hear the wheels turning at the other end. "The man from the Bureau of _Land Management. _I don't suppose _he'd_ like to enlighten me. Is there any risk to my staff? From the remains, I mean?"

"I doubt it. I think you never would've gotten your hands on the body if there had been. That's why I think this is a long shot." The judge glanced up; the pharmacist was making a little motion to him from over by the counter. The prescription was ready. "There's probably nothing else to find."

"Still," Meaker mused quietly, "I think we'll be taking one more look. I'm sorry; the body won't be available until . . . probably Monday afternoon."

"That's quite all right," Hardcastle said. "I'm sure the family will understand completely."

He said good-bye, and hung up with a grim smile on his face. If nothing else, he had delayed Professor Emory's return home by forty-eight hours. He sincerely hoped by then he'd have some answers for Bob Sturgis. Newspaper under his arm, he strode over to the counter and paid for the prescription.

00000

He'd made good time going back to Dry Mesa, the sort of driving that might have gotten a pointed comment if it had been McCormick instead of him behind the wheel. His justification had been keeping the pizza hot; somehow he hadn't felt he was going to be getting any more dinner invitations from Mary Ellen too soon.

He let himself into the room quietly, pleased to find McCormick was exactly where he was supposed to be--in bed, snoring softly, with his arm propped up on a pillow. The judge took a chance and turned on the light over the desk. The arm looked pretty much the same, from what he could see above and below the bandage.

Hardcastle set the pill bottle on the nightstand, made quick work of a piece of pizza and departed.

00000

The alarm sliced brutally into the middle of a dream in which Mark was looking for something . . . exactly _what_ he couldn't figure out. He reached over in the usual way to slap it off a moment before he realized that was a bad idea.

"Agh," he clutched his arm back into his side and breathed in and out, waiting for the jolt of pain to subside. "Dammit." It had stiffened up, wrist and elbow, while he'd been asleep. He looked down at it cautiously. It didn't look as bad as it felt, though _that_, he concluded, would have been an impressive sight.

He dealt with the alarm clock using his good hand, then rolled over and sat up slowly, grabbing the sling off the end of the bed and easing it back on. He'd hoped he'd be able to do without it.

There was still a little twilight coming in around the curtains, seven thirty-five. He squinted at the pill bottle, picked it up, tried to grapple with it, and finally gave up on doing it one-handed. He stuffed the bottle into his pants pocket. The pizza was easier.

He opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the local phone directory--barely enough pages to line a bird cage. He dialed the Davis's; taking a chance that Emmalee had better things to do with her time than listen in.

Mary Ellen answered and, hearing his voice, was quick with her concern. "Everything okay, Mark?"

"Ah, yeah," McCormick kept it nonchalant. _Thirty-four hours and five minutes. Not a personal record for you, either. _"Is Ed there?"

She fetched him, and handed the phone over. He heard a whisper in the background, 'Ask him if he's eaten.'

Ed chuckled and said, "You hear that?"

"Yeah," McCormick smiled. "Tell her the judge even feeds me. He brought a pizza." The he paused a moment. "Hey, listen," he said it casually, in case Mary Ellen was still close to the phone. "You know that Chevy?"

"Ah . . . yeah," Ed said, and his own casual had a studied quality to it. "What about it?"

Mark exhaled; they were on the same page at least. "You know I never really got a good look at it. I was wondering if you were free?"

"_Tonight_?"

"Yeah, but, um, I don't have a ride. Hardcastle has the truck. Could you maybe pick me up over at the Pine Lodge?"

"What the hell am I supposed to tell Mary Ellen?" Ed's voice had dropped to a near-whisper, but it was clear that his wife was no longer in the room.

"Ah, tell her there aren't so many snakes at night. You think you could be here in fifteen minutes? I'd kinda like to get out of here before Hardcastle shows up again. He might think this is a bad idea."

"He might be right," Ed said with particular conviction.

"Nah, come on. I got a note. Mendoza, or one of his guys, was close enough to see us this morning. He coulda taken us out right then. I tell you, the snake was the only dangerous thing out there."

"Yeah, well I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to go out climbing around the bluffs after you've been bit by a rattlesnake."

"That was eight _hours_ ago," Mark insisted. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, yeah," Ed grumbled, but then he relented, "I'll see you in a few minutes."

Mark recradled the phone and got up again, still slowly. He stepped over to the curtain and pulled it a little to one side. It was dusk. Mrs. Parson's Oldsmobile was back and the light was on in the back room of the office building, but there were no apparent new guests. Patterson's sedan was still gone and his cabin was dark, with drawn drapes.

It was the worst kind of itch, knowing he had a few minutes on his hands, and knowing that would be all it would take him to get inside Patterson's cabin and have a chance to figure out what the hell the guy was doing here. _But you promised Hardcastle you wouldn't do that without telling him first._

_What about going out after Mendoza? Didn't you promise not to do that, too?_

_Um . . . no, I promised to take a nap._

Chapter 12—Non-sequiters

"So, you must have a lot of roadkill around here."

It was the second hour of a fruitless excursion up into the bluffs, and almost every reasonable line of conversation had been trotted out and dealt with. Still, this observation from Hardcastle was unexpected enough to draw a startled look from the sheriff, along with a sharp glance from Patterson.

"Well," Wannerman drawled, "we get our share. Got a lot of unfenced land out here. People drive too fast, 'specially at night."

"What'dya do with it?" the judge asked, with idle curiosity. "The roadkill, I mean."

"Depends on what it is. Tortoises, reptiles, elk, the state wants us to keep a count of them."

"What about cattle and . . . sheep?"

Wannerman was frowning now, looking once at Patterson and then back at the judge. "You city boys all think alike, huh?" He jerked his chin in Patterson's direction. "He asked me the same thing day before yesterday."

Patterson met Hardcastle's eyes with a flat look. He wasn't giving away anything.

"Well," the sheriff straightened up, rubbing his hand against his lower back, "it's not all that easy. Most times the damage from the impact spoils the meat. Don't suppose you two have ever butchered anything, huh?" He shook his head. "Blood in the muscle. And, besides, things rot so fast out here, especially in the summer. Hardly ever anything that's usable, except for the vultures. We do try to get the carcasses off the road before the bloat sets in, though." The sheriff was surveying his surroundings, including his two companions, with a jaundiced look. "We're losing the light pretty fast here. Don't think there's much more we can do today."

00000

McCormick had picked up and put down the small leather case twice in the past five minutes. Finally he slipped it back into the bottom of his bag, stepped out the door of the cabin, and closed it firmly behind him, to remove himself from temptation. Standing there, leaning back against the wall and trying to look nonchalant, he almost immediately regretted his decision.

The front door of the office was easing open, and he saw the shadowy form of Mrs. Parsons lean out and glance both ways before she waved him over urgently. McCormick let out a sigh. He'd been hoping to get away unseen, so as to slow the pursuit if the judge beat him back to the motel. No chance now.

He strolled over to where she stood. "I'm waiting for a ride," he explained gently, anticipating an invitation to step inside.

Emmalee shook her head impatiently and made another wary sweep of the surroundings. "It won't take long. It's important. I have to show you something." Then she seemed to push her distraction aside for a moment and take notice of the sling. "What happened to your arm?"

"Got bit. Snake." McCormick said tersely. "I was looking at a Chevy." He'd decided it wasn't like he had a quota; he might as well be consistent.

"Snakes," Mrs. Parsons shuddered. "Nasty things. I found one under a Buick one time. Scared the living daylights out of me. She peered into the sling. "You should be lying down."

"I'm taking it pretty easy." McCormick smiled.

She had him firmly by the good arm and was encouraging him inside. "I want you to see something." She tugged him over to the counter and left him there, ducking around to the back side herself.

"Look," she pulled a small paper bag from under the counter and held the top open for him, "I think it's some sort of drugs."

Inside he saw something that resembled a syringe, with a glass tube where the plunger ought to have been. He reached for the bag with his good hand and gently tipped the contents onto the counter. There was a needle at the business end, capped, and on the side of the tube, fuzzily visible through the plastic wall of the syringe, was a label that read 'Atropine soln. 2 mg/cc'.

McCormick gave Mrs. Parsons a questioning look.

"I found it in _his_ room this morning. That Mr. Patterson. It's _drugs--_"

Mark held up his hand, silencing her. "Wait. Just tell me one thing. How hard did you have to look to find this? Was it just lying out in the open?"

Emmalee pulled back a little, getting a slightly cagey expression. "Well . . . no."

"It fell out of his bag, maybe when you were moving it to do some cleaning?"

Mrs. Parsons considered this for a moment and then nodded slightly. "Yes, something like that." The she paused for a moment before plunging ahead, "There was a whole _box_ of them, must've been fifty at least, in the bottom of his bag."

McCormick let out a sigh and put his hand to his forehead, having a sudden and deep insight into how the judge felt sometimes.

"Bureau of _Land_ Management," the older woman muttered, only half out-loud. "It's _drugs_."

"You left everything else the way it was?" Mark tried to pin her down on that, at least.

"Yes," Emmalee gave him a crafty look, "_exactly_ the way I found it." McCormick was suddenly glad his lock picks, and the judge's gun, had spent the day in the glove compartment.

"Okay, I need to borrow this. I'll show it to Dr. Sandoval. That's okay with you?"

"Certainly," Mrs. Parsons became positively prim. "I don't want that nasty stuff around here."

Mark saw headlights cut through the front window and almost jumped before he realized it was only Ed's truck. He gave Mrs. Parsons a quick nod and said, "That's my ride." Then he slipped the syringe into his pocket and gave her a pat on the arm. "Don't worry. We'll look into it, okay?"

Emmalee smiled and said, "You take care of that arm, now. Snake bites are nothing to fool around with."

And then he was out the door. Ed had pulled into the lot and was already half out of the truck, looking around. McCormick nodded at him once and gestured him back into the vehicle, going around to the other side.

"Let's get out of here," he said, as soon as he'd climbed in. "But I need to make a phone call before we head up there. We've got some time. Somebody left me a note asking me to meet them back there at nine." He dug in his pocket for the scrap of paper and held it out to Ed.

He pulled up to the curb and switched on the cab light.

"Recognize the writing?" Mark asked.

"Hell, I wouldn't know even if it _was_ Mendoza's."

"Well, I can't think of any water that makes sense except the spring," McCormick took the paper back, "can you?"

Ed shrugged a 'no'.

"But I've got to call Dr. Sandoval, first."

"You _are_ okay, right?" Ed asked warily.

"Yeah," McCormick grimaced. He was getting a little tired of the question. "I just need to ask him a question about something. Not this." He gestured to his arm. "And I'd rather call him now."

"Okay, my shop then."

"Is the Chevy drivable?"

"Yeah," Ed shrugged again. "Not as good as the truck off-road."

"But good enough?" Mark smiled. "Perfect. We can take that. If we run into anybody on the way there or back, it's just a test drive."

"But I don't think you should be driving," Ed frowned, "not with your arm like that."

"Okay, a test _ride_ then," Mark was still smiling. "Come on, it's better than nothing."

They drove slowly and sedately past the café and the sheriff's department. McCormick peered cautiously to the side. There were lights on and both Patterson's sedan and the judge's truck were parked outside.

"I hope they get to talking," he said fervently.

"Just how mad is he going to be at you?"

"Dunno," Mark shook his head and turned his face forward again. "It would be really great if they started telling old war stories and we got there and back again before they were done."

Ed looked at him dubiously. "He's not gonna, like, have you _arrested _or something."

"Oh, God no, we're past that . . . I think." Mark frowned. "No, it'll be worse. He'll give me that _look_. You know, that 'you're a hell'uva disappointment to me' look."

Ed nodded as he pulled in at his shop. He seemed pretty conversant with The Look. Mark climbed down out of the truck, leaning against the side of it for a moment. Then he followed Ed in, this time rooting in his shirt pocket for yet another piece of paper.

Sandoval answered on the first ring and, hearing Mark's name, asked the inevitable question.

"No, I'm doing pretty good." Mark watched Ed make a face. He shook his head back at him. "I just had another question. Unrelated, but you're the only person I could think of who might be able to give me an answer. Hope I didn't bother you."

The doctor answered 'no' with some puzzlement in his tone.

"Good." Mark had fished the syringe out of his pocket. Ed was leaning over for a look. "There's something called atropine, in a vial, to be injected. What do you use that for?"

There was a moment of silence as the doctor apparently shifted gears. Then, "Ah, it's got a couple of uses. It speeds up the heart rate," the doctor began a little slowly, obviously trying to break this down to layman's terms. "And it dries up secretions in the airway; anesthetists use it before surgery. Oh, and it's used to treat insecticide poisonings, for some toxic mushrooms, too."

"Mushrooms?" McCormick frowned. "How 'bout this insecticide thing--is that very common?"

"Insecticides? Not so much around here, and if they're used properly, there shouldn't be any toxicity to human." Another moment of silence passed, and then, "May I ask why you're asking about this? Is there some sort of problem I should know about?"

It seemed a reasonable question, and McCormick did not have a reasonable answer. So he fell back on prevarication. "Nothing too important. Just was given it one time--"

"Before surgery?"

"Yeah. Wondered what it was for." McCormick knew he sounded like a total idiot, which meant the doctor would want to end the conversation as quickly as possible. All well and good. He thanked Sandoval one more time and they said their good-byes.

He hung up. Ed was leaning on the counter next to him, eyebrows up. "Mushrooms?" he asked. "Insecticides? What the hell was that all about?"

"I wish I knew," McCormick said with heartfelt sincerity as he pocketed the syringe again. "We'd better get going."

00000

There was a certain amount of tension in Sheriff Wannerman's squad car going back into town. The sheriff himself looked like he was pondering something. Patterson was keeping a stony silence. Hardcastle's further forays into conversation were mostly answered by grunts from the other two men. Despite this, Wannerman extended an invitation to them both to join him when they got to his office.

Patterson was not-too-subtly waiting to see what the judge would say. Hardcastle took a quick look at his watch and decided McCormick could use another hour of sleep. He accepted the invitation convivially.

Wannerman checked his messages, made coffee, and laid out maps, showing them where they had, and hadn't been the past two days. He was looking hard at Patterson when he mentioned that if nothing broke loose soon, he'd be asking for additional help from the county, or possibly even the state police.

Hardcastle watched Patterson tense up and then visibly force himself back down a couple notches. The smile was there, patently artificial but absolutely collegial--it wasn't as if any of those higher-ups knew the area like the sheriff did, a few pointed comments on the evils of interference, and outsiders taking all the credit for any eventual success, but always scooting out from under any blame.

It was a masterful monologue, the most ardent words the judge had heard Patterson string together in two days. Wannerman was eyeing him narrowly, and then cast a glance at Hardcastle as if to see how he was taking it. The judge kept his opinion off his face. He rapidly calculated how much his vote would be worth to Patterson, in exchange for information, but just as quickly decided it wouldn't be worth the grief he'd get from McCormick.

Instead he bought them all some peace by deciding it was about time to go back and check on the kid. As soon as he'd said as much, Patterson, too, called it a night. Wannerman gave himself a Monday morning deadline for bringing in additional support. Patterson swallowed hard and accepted that without comment.

They left the sheriff contemplating his maps and his lack of progress, and stepped out into the warm and moonless night. Hardcastle cast a quick sideward glance at Patterson, half tempted to ask him straight out what the deal was with the sheep. Still, at this point he knew practically nothing, and there was the slightest chance that Patterson was giving him more credit than he deserved. Keeping a little leverage might be useful.

They both had until Monday to accomplish _something_. It'd be an interesting rest of the weekend.

Chapter 13—On the Clock

No moon, and dusk had settled into night. The Chevy's headlights picked out the same rock formations that they'd parked between that morning—it seemed strange to think that was less than twelve hours ago. Mark opened his door slowly and eased himself up off of the seat.

"You should stay here," he said to Ed as he reached back in for the flashlight.

"I thought you said snakes were the only thing dangerous around here." Ed grinned back at him.

"Yeah, well, I don't want to face Mary Ellen if I turn out to be wrong."

"And I know Mendoza; we'll be okay. I should go with you." Ed said nothing more as he got out and shut his door behind him.

Mark left the light off for the moment, trying to make out anything at all in the dark rocks before them. Even to the dark-adapted eye there were only impressions of bulk towering above them, with an absence of stars in that part of the sky.

He flicked on the light, pointing it downward and a little ahead of them. They followed the rise to the spring. He stood there a moment, wondering if they'd have to climb any higher. Then he leaned over to Ed and said, "There _aren't _very many snakes at night, are there?"

Ed started to laugh but was cut short by a hissing sound—human, not snake—that startled them both.

"Hey, Carlos?" Ed asked cautiously

"Hey, Ed." The words came from a little ways above them. A moment later there was a shape in the shadows, behind that two more, one a good deal larger than the other two. "That him?" Mendoza was talking back, over his shoulder, to one of the other shadows.

"Yeah . . . hey, Skid. What happened to your arm?"

"Snake. This morning. Right about where you're standing."

"_Shit_." The shadow that was Hooch moved a little to the right. "You okay?"

McCormick managed a one-shoulder shrug. "Wouldn't mind sitting down."

Mendoza gestured them forward. "Come on; we'll go up here. There's a place."

They followed. Mark was breathing hard by the time they reached a ledge, about fifty feet above the spring. He played the flashlight over a couple of rocks and then sat down on one abruptly. He shone the flashlight onto his watch face—nine-thirteen—and looked up impatiently at Mendoza and the others.

"Okay, I'm on the clock right now, so if you don't mind, I'll ask the important question first. You didn't kill Evangeline Emory, did you?"

00000

Patterson had, not surprisingly, tailed him the three blocks back to the lodge. The lights were still off in cabin five. The judge hoped McCormick had at least woken up long enough to take the medicine. He turned the key in the lock with a minimum of jangling and eased the door open noiselessly.

A little light from the porch of the office was enough to illuminate a swath across the empty far bed. This, and the door open to the darkened bathroom, was all Hardcastle needed to see.

It was either his stance, or Patterson was a damn good observer. Hardcastle heard the other man toss off a friendly, "Everything all right?" from across the way, where he was letting himself into his own room.

The judge looked over his shoulder, keeping the door partly closed and giving a quick wave and a nod, as if he didn't want to disturb the man who was not within.

"Damn kid," he muttered through his teeth, still clenched in a smile, as he turned back and passed inside.

00000

It was hard to see any expressions in the dark and McCormick didn't think shining a flashlight in Mendoza's face would be the appropriate thing to do right now, but he would have sworn the man's mouth had dropped open. That went along pretty well with the moment of stunned silence, the intake of breath, and the quietly indignant "No," that followed it.

Mark watched the shape that was Axe shift nervously in behind Mendoza, who had sat himself down on another rock and was leaning forward.

"Listen, I didn't kill anybody. None of my guys did it. I don't know _who_ did it."

McCormick felt a twinge of disappointment at this last admission. He was hoping Mendoza would at least have a theory.

"Well, nearly everybody in town has you at the head of the list of suspects, and what you've done since Thursday morning hasn't helped much. You might want to consider talking to the sheriff."

Mendoza shook his head. "Nothing I can say to him is gonna make it look any better."

"Why? There's apparently no physical evidence to link you to the crime. If there was, he'd've issued a warrant. All he's calling you so far is 'a person of interest'."

"What's he gonna call me after he finds out I ran into her up on the bluffs Wednesday?"

It was McCormick's turn to stare. Then he leaned forward, too quickly, he realized, but he couldn't help himself. "_Wednesday_? What time, where?"

"The time, I dunno, it wasn't like I knew it was going to be important. Around midday, I guess. I was walking up there." He was pointing off to the southwest. "It was near Red Ridge, you know the place, Ed." Davis had crouched down next to McCormick. "There's a bunch of rock paintings, hands mostly, some other stuff. Some glyphs carved into the ceilings in one of the caves."

"Yeah," Ed nodded, "I know it."

"So I said 'Hi,' to her. I've seen her before. There wasn't anything wrong. She looked fine."

"And you didn't hear or see anything after that?" McCormick asked urgently. "You didn't see anybody else?"

"No one, nothing. I went back down to the valley. I walked back to my place."

"That's about ten miles," Ed said disbelievingly.

"Yeah, so? I do that sometimes. Helps me think. I didn't get home until about three. Did some chores, had dinner. There's five of us right now, well, not anymore, I sent the others away." He jerked his head back at the two shadows behind him, "These two don't listen too good." Mendoza heaved a breath. "They were all there when I left, same when I got back."

"So you were gone, out walking, for about six or seven hours that day?" McCormick sat back shaking his head. "And the whole time you were gone, you didn't see anyone except a woman who's now dead. And you really can't vouch for any of your guys, and they can't vouch for you?"

"That's about it."

"So how come you're not in Mexico by now?"

Mendoza shrugged, then he straightened his shoulders and sat up. "Look, Bobby said you did time, right?"

"Yeah."

"And you've been out for a while and you've stayed out of trouble."

"More or less."

"But when something happens, who the hell do they look at first?"

McCormick said nothing; the nothing spoke for itself.

"Yeah," Mendoza said grimly. "So it's happened to you. Did you run?"

"No, but--"

"No," Mendoza interjected sharply, "because if you _had_, you wouldn't be sitting here talking to me right now. You be holed up in somewhere, looking over your shoulder at every stranger who gives _you_ a second look, either that or your ass would be back in the penitentiary. Right?"

There wasn't much to say to this, either.

"So, I'm not running, not yet, anyway. But I'm sure as hell not turning myself in," Mendoza finished with a tone of defiance.

"Okay," Mark replied quietly, "then we need to find the other person who ran into Professor Emory that afternoon. At least we have a better idea _where _they were." He turned to Ed. "Is that Talcott property over there?"

"Is, or nearly is. The part at the bottom of the bluff sure is."

"Carlos," McCormick looked back at the other man, "any reason why the Talcotts would have it in for you? Them or anybody else?"

Mendoza was staring down at the ground between them, after a moment he raised his head again. "You know, I've been thinking about that a lot. Probably whoever did it just wanted to pass suspicion off on the more likely people. But if that's it, it has to be somebody from around here."

"We already figured that out," McCormick sighed. "Doesn't make it any easier, sort of points the finger at everyone else in town. How 'bout the Talcotts?"

"Aw, old man Talcott never liked anybody, not even his own son." Mendoza shrugged. Ed was nodding along in agreement.

"And Nick?"

Mendoza paused again then hesitated as he began. "Well, I did have a run-in with him a while back. Nothing that major. But that was months ago."

"What kind of 'run in'?" Mark asked impatiently.

"It was an accident. That's what he said. But three sheep at one time? I mean, how careless can a guy be? I figured he must've been drunk."

"Those were your sheep?"

"Yeah, happened down by my southwest corner. There's a road there that runs by the Talcott place. Dirt road, two ruts is all."

"Where does it run to?"

"It ends over by the bluffs."

"The ones where you were walking on Wednesday?"

"Yeah, but, that was, um, back in January. And he paid me for the sheep."

"Did you actually see them, the dead sheep?"

Mendoza was frowning. "Yeah, well, sure. They were just carcasses. Don't think they even would have been good mutton; they were pretty banged up. Hell, one of 'em looked like it'd been run over. He paid me fair market and that was that."

"Just that? No fuss?"

"Well, maybe I said something about him managing to kill three of them, on a back road and all. Might've made some remarks."

"And have you seen Nick Talcott since then?"

"Ah," Mendoza thought about that one for a moment, "not much. He hasn't been in town much. I usually run into him once in a while, if I'm out walking on the road. Not lately though."

"One other thing," McCormick added, "do you use any insecticides on your ranch?"

Mendoza gave him a puzzled look, then turned toward Ed. "Is this one of those trick questions?" Ed shrugged at him. Mendoza frowned. "The problem with insects around here is mostly tarantulas, and as long as they don't eat grass, they don't bother me."

"Same I suppose for the Talcotts?"

"Pretty much, I guess."

McCormick let his shoulders drop, cradling his left arm in his right, sighing wearily. "Okay, don't know if we got much more than what we came with, but at least we've narrowed down the search area a little. Don't suppose you'd consider talking to a friend of mine? He'd probably think up better questions."

"That judge guy?" Mendoza was looking over his shoulder at Hooch.

"Yeah," Mark replied. "His name is Hardcastle. He doesn't believe you left your calling card on Vangie's back, either, but he really wants to get the guy who did it."

Axe was shaking his head. Hooch leaned down and whispered something to Mendoza, who looked up again.

"I'll have to think about it."

Mark checked his watch again, nine-twenty. He turned to Ed. "We'd better get back to town before he sends out a search party." And then, to Hooch, "You know how to reach me when you guys make up your minds."

He got up a little stiffly, sorted out his sling and pointed the flashlight back onto the path they'd come up. Mendoza and his men didn't follow them down.

He walked down the slope to the Chevy feeling drained. Now that the excitement was over, he had only the sober realization that, unless he was very lucky, he was going to have a lot of explaining to do, and all that in exchange for very little information.

Ed gave him some space. He drove past his shop saying, "I'll drop you off, first."

Mark looked up from where he'd been staring, a point of no particular significance on the dashboard. "Oh, hell, maybe you better let me out one street back of the Lodge."

"He's either there, or he's not--" Ed began.

"It's not Hardcase. He's gonna have me dead to rights, most likely. I don't want him to have to explain to Patterson where the hell I was."

Ed nodded and turned off Main Street a block before the motel. He pulled up in a darkened spot. He looked concerned as Mark climbed out again.

"You better get some rest; you look like shit."

"Thanks, Ed," McCormick smiled wearily. "Just for that I'm not taking this Chevy off your hands." Then he closed the door as quietly as possible and turned toward the back of the lodge to get his bearings.

He heard Ed pulling off as he picked his way between some scrubby bushes to get a better sight line on the parking lot. Patterson's sedan was there, the truck as well. He let down a sigh. Lights out everywhere, which meant exactly nothing as far as both men were concerned. McCormick went the long way around to the back of cabin five--window closed and, he would bet any odds, latched as well. He tapped lightly on the glass.

It wasn't many seconds before he saw movement just inside the frosted glass and the window opened slowly.

"I oughta make you spend the night out there," a gruffly familiar voice said, from the darkness within.

"Might have to," McCormick said quietly. "Don't know if I can manage the climb and I'm figuring I'd better not be seen coming in the front door."

Hardcastle's face was now framed in the open window, studying the younger man with more care.

"Dammit." He disappeared inside for a moment, then appeared again. "Dunno if it'll fit," he muttered, and McCormick saw the legs of the desk chair protruding through the opening.

He guided it through with his right hand. It was tight, but they managed to get it down on the ground outside with a minimum of noise. McCormick steadied himself with his good arm on the window sill and stepped up on the seat.

It was tricky getting both legs through, and when he bumped his left hand on the sash, the pain was breathtaking. It was only Hardcastle who kept him from collapsing in a heap on the bottom of the tub.

"Thanks," he said, after he caught his breath. Then he tried to step out of the tub without looking like he needed more assistance.

The judge, who'd reached out to retrieve the chair, looked over his shoulder and said, "I hope you realize you've shot to hell any arguments that started with 'I'm fine.'"

Mark managed a smile. "Can I have that chair?"

Chapter 14--Conference

Hardcastle took the chair and directed the younger man to the bed. McCormick didn't complain.

He'd just kicked his shoes off and gotten his feet up when the judge grumbled, "At least you took the antibiotic."

The light had been turned on over the desk. Mark was pretty sure the sudden flush of embarrassment was apparent on his face.

"Ah, I . . ."

He scrabbled in his pocket with his good hand, felt the syringe and had a passing thought--_Is this really a good time to introduce stolen evidence into the case?_

_No, _he shoved the syringe deeper and pulled out the pill bottle--hardly a happier topic but at least not a criminal offense.

"I couldn't get it open one-handed."

He paused on that fairly pathetic excuse and held the bottle out to the judge who silently, entirely without comment, got up and reached over for it, pushing down on the lid and twisting it, then dumping one of the pills out into McCormick's hand.

Mark looked down at the pill and then up at the judge. He said, nervously, "But the pizza was good." Then he popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed once, hard.

Hardcastle shook his head, still not speaking. He reached behind him to the desk for a glass and went to the bathroom to fill it. When he returned with that, he pulled the chair in closer and sat down. McCormick took the glass, drank from it, and then leaned his head back, giving the ceiling a hard study.

"Okay," he finally said, "will you please just yell at me and get it over with."

"Let's see the arm," the judge replied, still preternaturally calm.

Mark frowned and unfastened the sling, letting it fall loose as he propped his arm on his knees. He hadn't seen it in the light since he'd left Ed's shop this evening. He unwrapped the bandage slowly, trying not to jar anything. The swelling was not noticeably worse, but there was a faint pink-red tinge to the skin around the bite that had engulfed the smaller area of bruises. McCormick was relieved to see it still didn't look as bad as it felt.

"I'll call Sandoval," Hardcastle said after a moment's examination.

"Now? It's after ten." Mark protested. "Besides," he changed tacks abruptly. "I already talked to him tonight, about two hours ago."

"What did he say?" Hardcastle's eyes narrowed a bit.

"He didn't say I had to come in," Mark smiled a little edgily. "He didn't change his instructions at all . . . and I haven't really given the antibiotic a fair chance."

"Well," Hardcastle frowned the frown of natural-born suspicion. "I'll bet he didn't know you were planning on going out tonight."

"Ah, no." Mark willingly acquiesced to this point, suddenly feeling that his excursion to the spring was actually the safest of several subjects. "But I finally met Mendoza." He tucked his arm back out of sight in the sling and leaned forward a little. "He'd left a message for me while we were out this afternoon. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to discuss it with you." Mark felt his way back up onto firmer ground. "Must've been asleep when you stopped off here."

This got a humph and a look of doubt; he was buying the _asleep_ but not the _sorry_. Mark shrugged and went on. "But anyway, Ed drove me out there. He wanted to meet over by the spring, same place we were at this morning."

"I know where it is," Hardcastle said curtly. "What did Mendoza have to say?"

"That he's not guilty," McCormick said flatly.

"And he's willing to come in and tell that to the sheriff?" Hardcastle asked.

"No, not that. But he knows where Vangie was around noon on Wednesday."

"He _saw_ her that day?"

"Yeah, out southwest of town, on a bluff where there's some Indian paintings. Ed knows the place. He can draw us a map. It's near the Talcott's property."

"No big news there. Anything else?"

"Oh, the sheep. Those sheep Nick killed were Mendoza's."

Hardcastle seemed to be pondering this; it was like having one piece left over that didn't fit no matter how you turned it.

McCormick eased down against the headrest, feeling like the worst might be over, now that he'd gotten the judge back to thinking about the case. Then he remembered the syringe. _Might as well be done with it._ He reached into his pocket again.

"And then there's this." He held up the syringe.

Hardcastle leaned over, looked at it a moment and then took it from him, studying it more closely. "From Mendoza?" he frowned as he asked.

"Ah, no . . . from Patterson."

Hardcastle shot him a glance.

"Not _me_," Mark added earnestly, "Mrs. Parsons took it. She said there was a whole box of them."

"Where, exactly?" the judge asked tightly.

McCormick sighed. "In his bag, in his room. This is a transient occupancy situation, though, right? There's implied consent to owner entry--"

"No," Hardcastle interrupted, "It's a stolen property situation and, even if it weren't, you've got _Stoner v. California_, _U.S. v. Jeffers_-- and those are just the precedents where the _police_ improperly removed evidence from hotel rooms."

McCormick closed his eyes and said, wearily, "Yeah, but anyway, I don't think Patterson is going to complain about this being missing and I don't expect we're going to try to make a case for _him_ having killed Evangeline."

After a moment Mark lifted his head again, looking at the judge. There hadn't been any response, sharp or otherwise. Hardcastle was studying the syringe, frowning.

"It's used to treat some kind of heart problem. That's what Sandoval said," McCormick continued, "and for insecticide poisoning. Whaddaya think? Does Patterson have a really bad ticker, or are we on to something?"

"Insecticide?" The judge's frown deepened; "What the hell would--?"

"That's pretty much the same thought I got from Mendoza. He doesn't use much and probably not Talcott, either."

Hardcastle said nothing more; he reached back over to the desk for the phone, setting the syringe down carefully. Then he fumbled in his pocket and removed a scrap of paper with a number written on it. McCormick watched patiently as he dialed, then waited, then apparently got an answering machine.

"Meaker? Hardcastle. Quick question for you, with regards to what we were talking about earlier today. Might narrow it down some if 'atropine' means anything in this situation." He gave the Lodge's phone number and a quick good-bye before he hung up.

"The doc from the coroner's office?" Mark asked hesitantly.

"Yeah," Hardcastle sat back in his chair, still eyeing the syringe. "He might have a little more _forensic_ approach than Sandoval." There was a pause; the judge looked up, fixing McCormick with a look. "Did you mention your arm at _all_ when you talked to him tonight?"

"Ah," Mark grimaced, shifting a little to get more comfortable, "no, it wasn't bothering me that much then . . . still isn't," he added, too slowly to be convincing. "Look, Judge," he plowed ahead, "I took the damn antibiotic. Let's give it a chance to work. It's late; I'm tired. If it's worse tomorrow, I'll go see him."

"Tomorrow's Sunday," Hardcastle snapped back to the other subject. "Meaker might not be in, either. Dammit." He rubbed his forehead.

"Well," Mark murmured, eyes closed again, "At least _Patterson_ knows what it's for. You can always ask him."

"Might come to that," the judge grumbled after a moment more of thought, and, getting no response from McCormick, looked up again.

Asleep, of course, having off-loaded everything and with the emergency phone call as some sort of tacit absolution. Hardcastle frowned. He hadn't meant to let him off that easy. He shook his head and reached over to pull the covers up over the younger man.

00000

The next morning Hardcastle, up and dressed for an hour already, caught the phone on the first ring, hoping it would be the pathologist.

"Hello," he said eagerly.

Instead of Meaker, he heard Ed's nervous reply, "Ah, Judge Hardcastle um, is Mark there?"

"Asleep." The judge looked over his shoulder at the man in question. Still pretty much out cold.

There was a pause on the other end. Ed was probably trying to figure out how to word something. Then, still nervous, "Um, he's _okay_, isn't he?" The clear implication was that he was speaking to the reason why Mark might _not_ be okay.

"Look," Hardcastle rubbed the bridge of his nose, but kept his voice down, though he doubted that even flat-out shouting would have much effect on McCormick at seven-thirty in the morning, "all I asked the guy to do was take it easy for a day or two. That, and keep me _informed_ if he was going to run off looking for a murder suspect. That's _all_ I asked. You'da think I sentenced him to another two years hard time."

"Well, ah, he was kinda worried about what you might do."

"Not nearly worried enough, it appears." Hardcastle frowned. "I think I used to be a lot scarier," he added, half to himself.

"Oh, he wasn't scared," Ed corrected hastily, "He was _worried_. He said you were going to be disappointed."

"Ah," Hardcastle paused for a moment; then he added quietly, "Yeah, I was. And I was worried, too. You two took a stupid risk."

"Nah," Ed reassured him, "I know Mendoza."

"Maybe," the judge acceded. "Maybe so. But there's also a guy out there who's killed someone, probably to cover something up. I don't think he'll stop at just one, if someone gets too close to whatever it is he's hiding."

There was a sober silence from the other end.

"So," Hardcastle continued, after a moment, "I'd kinda like you to remember that, next time he tries to rope you into one of his reconnaissance missions. Okay?"

"Well, yeah, okay," Ed said, managing to sound properly chastised, though the judge knew from experience just how far that would go. "Anyway," the man added, "I called to invite you over to our place for breakfast. Mary Ellen doesn't open the café on Sunday."

"_Both_ of us?" Hardcastle had a little trouble keeping the doubt out of his tone.

Ed laughed nervously again. "Sorry about that, too. I was just trying to explain to her how Mark wasn't such a bad guy and--"

"I suppose one of us has to be," Hardcastle exhaled. "I guess she'd see it that way."

"Yeah, it's all kinda black and white with Mary Ellen."

"There aren't that many who can see the shades in between," the judge added quietly, having just tripped over another reason why Ed and Mark had hit it off so well.

"Anyway, she's sort of settled down about it now. She said she'll make pancakes and sausage for both of you."

Hardcastle was peering out alongside the drapes now. No visible stirring from the Patterson cabin, but a sense of watchfulness.

"Ed, I might take a pass on the breakfast, but McCormick'll probably say yes. And I heard you could draw us a little map of where Professor Emory was last seen."

"Ah," Ed had gotten the veiled reference to keeping Mendoza's name out of it while on this particular phone. "Yeah, sure. I can drop it off when I pick up Mark. Think maybe in an hour?"

"Sounds good. And today," Hardcastle tried to sound stern, "could you try to get him to stay put. Let him mess around with some of the cars. That'll keep him out of trouble."

And Ed said, "Sure, no problem," with the blithe assurance of someone who had never attempted the task before.

Hardcastle hung up and took another look at the man who could sleep through damn near anything. He had deep reservations about sending McCormick off to keep company with Ed Davis today, but even deeper ones about leaving him alone, or hauling him along up into the cliffs, where he expected to be spending the day with the sheriff and Patterson.

"Hey," he tapped the good shoulder, trying not to nudge anything that might still hurt. He got a bleary blink or two. "Hey," he said a little louder, "you've got an invitation to breakfast."

"Mrs. Parson's gravy again?" McCormick muttered, still half asleep.

"Nope, Mary Ellen's pancakes." This got a little higher level of alertness. "Ed's picking you up in an hour."

"Me?" McCormick's eyes were open now. "She won't flip a flapjack for you, huh?"

"No," Hardcastle shook his head, "we were both invited, but I'm going to have a previous engagement."

"I hope you're not planning on going over to the office and brow-beating poor Mrs. Parsons this morning."

"Nah, left my truncheon at home. Ed's bringing me a map. I'll be having a sudden and persistent inspiration about where we should search next, when I meet with Wannerman later on this morning."

"And Patterson, too?"

"Don't see any way around that, unless you want to take him with _you_ today."

"Nah," McCormick gave a slight shudder. "He's your shadow. Thank God." The he frowned. "But what about_ me_? What time do you want me to meet you back at the sheriff's?"

"Let's see your arm," Hardcastle said quietly but firmly.

McCormick grimaced. The judge noticed he hadn't tried to sit up yet. He managed that, but only by rolling on his side first, and pushing off with the good arm. He managed to stifle the grunt.

The sling was half off anyway and the bandage hadn't been reapplied from the night before. The area of redness was no larger, but maybe a touch more intense. There was no question the arm was stiff, but McCormick made a show out of straightening it. Too bad he couldn't follow through with a proper grip with that hand, when he reached to push the covers down.

"Yeah, it's the Davis's or the clinic," Hardcastle said definitively. "Your choice. Though I think it may come to the clinic in the end."

"Things are always worse the next day. And first thing in the morning, too." McCormick pushed himself off the bed. "Can you get the top off that pill bottle for me?" he asked, giving his argument no support at all. Hardcastle looked at him intransigently as he opened the bottle and handed over the pill. "Well, I don't think we need to bother Sandoval yet," Mark added, a little sullenly, as he got up to get the water glass and then limped into the bathroom.

Just including the 'yet' was a major concession, Hardcastle concluded. He'd settle for that, and a day of supervision by Mary Ellen.

00000

McCormick was having trouble working up the proper degree of resentment for being shunted off to the side. He thought he'd work on that after breakfast, and maybe once he got his left hand functioning properly again. He'd very quietly checked the outer sill of the bathroom window. Nothing there. By the time he was out of the shower and dressed, he still felt only marginally irritated, and more-or-less willing to let Hardcase go point on this mission.

_What the hell, he'll have the Sheriff with him . . .and Patterson, and he's the only guy who really knows what's going on._

McCormick had developed a fairly strong impression that Patterson could handle himself, and probably wouldn't incur any unnecessary civilian deaths if only because of the paperwork. As he left the bathroom, he heard the truck crunching up to a stop on the gravel outside.

The judge had already gone to the door. McCormick took the opportunity to slip the leather case out of his bag and into his pocket, assuring himself it was only a security precaution against Mrs. Parsons inquisitive bent.

Ed said 'Hi,' to them both as he stepped into the room. He took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and spread it out on the desk. Hardcastle leaned in, taking out the county map he'd apparently picked up while running his errands the day before. Mark looked over his shoulder, trying not to be too obtrusive.

"Well," Hardcastle said, after he'd gotten his bearings. "It'll be interesting to see what Patterson says when I try to redirect the search."

"If he knew, he wouldn't still be looking." Mark pointed out.

"Yeah, but he'll know _I_ know something, and, since he and I've been mostly joined at the hip, he's gonna figure _you_ had something to do with it." The judge was half smiling. "Not that I approve of _anything_ you two did yesterday," he added sternly, almost as an afterthought. Then he went back to studying the map, dismissing them both with a shooing motion.

"Stay out of trouble," McCormick said, back over his shoulder, as he stepped through the door behind Ed.

"You should talk," Hardcastle groused, as he leaned in more closely over the maps.

Chapter 15—The Warrant

It was only a few moments after the truck pulled away, that Hardcastle heard another knock. He quickly folded Ed's map and slipped it into the desk drawer. He surveyed the room briefly, grabbing the syringe and stuffed it into his pants pocket. Only then did he turn to answer the door.

Patterson, of course, with a fixed smile on his face. "Saw you were up and about. Kid must be doing better."

"Some." Hardcastle smiled right back at him. "The Davises have taken a shine to him. Or maybe Ed's feeling guilty because the snake was under his car. Mary Ellen's gonna feed him up and make sure he takes it easy today."

"And you?"

"Oh, I thought I'd see if the Sheriff's got any more leads this morning. Figured he'd be working on a Sunday, since he'll want to have done everything he can before he calls in the reinforcements tomorrow."

That one stung. He'd managed to get a quick frown out of the man.

"I had a little idea of my own, about where we might look around some," Hardcastle dangled the bait.

Patterson was an old and wily customer; he evinced only the merest curiosity when he said, "Where's that?"

"A place over 'bout opposite of where we were yesterday," Hardcastle kept it vague; he most definitely did not want his information to suddenly become more interesting to Patterson than he was.

"And what makes you think this would be a likely spot?" Patterson said, still showing only mild curiosity in the surface, though Hardcastle thought there were a few little signs of mounting agitation.

"Oh, some stuff I heard around." Hardcastle threw in a shrug. "There's more of those petroglyphs up there. That'd be the sort of thing Vangie would have been interested in."

"It's a long way from where her body was found."

"Well, that makes sense, too, if they person who killed her didn't want the place where she was killed to attract any notice."

"Okay," Patterson conceded that point, "any theories about why she wound up where she did?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle was staring at the other man intently now, with not one iota of deceptiveness in his gaze, or his tone. "I think she was put where she'd be found. The killer didn't want her to be just 'missing'; he didn't want some kind of massive search. There's something still up there. Vangie found it, and then she died. If someone else knows what it is, and starts looking for it seriously, then we'll be already halfway to ending this thing, and hopefully before anyone else gets hurt."

"You think it'd be that easy, eh?" Patterson snorted.

"You asked me what I thought. The question is, what's this thing that's still up there; how bad is it?"

Patterson said nothing.

"And is it dangerous bad, or just embarrassing bad?" Hardcastle prodded.

"God, no . . . it's not just embarrassing," Patterson replied very flatly, then he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, clearly not intending to say anything else.

Hardcastle waited for a moment, then he exhaled. "Okay, it's dangerous. You know _what_ it is--"

"I never said that."

"—and I know _where_ it might be. So, we're stuck with each other for now. And Wannerman is stuck with both of us."

"We don't really need him."

"Yes we do, if we want to have a prosecutable case against Vangie's murderer when we're done. That's important to me, unless you give me an awfully good reason why it shouldn't be."

Silence again.

"Okay," Hardcastle concluded, reaching for the phone, "let's give Wannerman a ring, and float my suggestion by him."

00000

They were blueberry pancakes and, under anything resembling ordinary circumstances, McCormick would have worked his way through several stacks of them. As it was, he was having trouble with the three he'd started with and he was vaguely aware that Mary Ellen was giving him concerned looks.

"You okay?" she asked flat out, after watching him prod the food listlessly.

"Oh, yeah," Mark flashed a quick smile and took a bite, "best I've ever had." Then he went back to distracted staring. He figured it'd be nine or so before they hooked up with Wannerman, then another thirty minutes, maybe more, before the judge could lay out his strategy to them, and a half hour after that before they got their coffee done and their expedition underway—Hardcastle wouldn't rush them; that wouldn't look right. Maybe Patterson would push things along, maybe he would hold back. He couldn't predict that.

Altogether he thought he shouldn't wait later than ten to put in a quick call and see how things were going.

00000

Wannerman had coffee for them, along with an apple crumb cake, courtesy of Mrs. Wannerman, who had heard he was entertaining visitors. He listened to Hardcastle's explanation and studied the map he'd laid on the desk.

"Yeah," he drawled. "I suppose it makes sense." Then he looked a little closer at the map. "Just a sec."

He stood up and left the room. They heard him say something to the station clerk then some more footsteps and some papers being shuffled. "Yeah, that's it," they heard, in a muffled voice that was Wannerman's. Then he was back in the room, carrying a rolled up map, which he spread with a practiced movement atop the other one.

"Yeah," he muttered. "That's what I thought. God only knows why, but Talcott's land line is just beyond that ridge. That section's still on his property."

Hardcastle had leaned forward, to look at where the sheriff's finger rested on the paper. Now he eased back in his chair. "Can you get a warrant?"

"A warrant? Hell, won't need that." Wannerman looked at him oddly.

Hardcastle shot Patterson a look; then he turned back to the sheriff and said, quietly but firmly, "I think you should have one."

"On a Sunday? Have to go clear into the county seat? And what are you figuring for probable cause here?" The sheriff shook his head. "Nah, I'll just take a ride over to Hank's and get his permission. Hell, we already crawled all over the place where the body was found."

Hardcastle nodded once. "That'll do, if he says 'yes'. We can go along as witnesses." He took a last swig of coffee and got to his feet. "Maybe we should get moving. Only so many hours of daylight."

Wannerman looked down at his watch and then up at Hardcastle with a dubious expression. "It's not even ten."

"See," the judge admonished, "half the morning gone and nothing done yet."

"City people," the sheriff muttered, as he followed the other two out.

00000

McCormick hung the phone up. The clerk had said they were already gone. Very efficient work on Hardcastle's part; Mark only hoped he wasn't pushing too hard. Questions about how he knew what he knew would be, at the least, embarrassing.

Ed was standing in the doorway, giving him the same worried look that Mary Ellen had been flashing at the table. "You wanna sit down?"

McCormick shook his head. _A half hour to get out there, then who knows how long to look around once they were there. _"We could, ah, take the Chevy out for another test ride."

Ed gave him a firm look. "No way. I think you got off easy last night."

"Aw," Mark managed a grin, "he was pretty happy with the syringe. It's just kinda hard to tell sometimes." The grin faded into a more pensive look. Mark tapped the phone receiver with one finger, started to pick it up, then put it down again.

"Come on," Ed jerked his head towards the back door. "I'll let you ride in the Bonneville. But we're staying in town."

00000

The entire Talcott family appeared to be at home. Hardcastle had caught another quick glimpse of the pale face of Mrs. Talcott through the same window as last time, and a young, lanky man with a strong resemblance to Hank Talcott, had followed the older man out onto the porch.

"'Mornin', Hank," Wannerman tipped his hat in greeting. He got a silent, slow nod in return. "Wonderin' if you might do me a favor?"

"Depends," Hank replied laconically.

The sheriff strode forward with the map that he'd displayed for them back in the office. He laid the roll on the porch itself and then spread it with one swift, sure movement that got both the Talcott men's attention. "Right here," Wannerman tapped the upper left hand corner of the map, "we're thinkin' it might be a good place to look. Now that's part of your spread, so I need to get your permission."

The senior Talcott was frowning. He squatted down alongside the map. Nick moved in behind him, not looking too pleased himself.

"Dunno, Wannerman. You already tromped all over the other day. How many times you gonna keep coming back, anyway?" He straightened up. Nick maintained his distance behind the older man, still saying nothing, but looking like he might.

Wannerman was still trying to keep it friendly. "Wouldn't be much in your way, Hank. It's way up there in the corner of your place, up on the bluffs."

"And where you gonna want to look next time? Maybe under my mattress, or up in my attic? It's a free country, and a man's got rights on his own land." Hank had come down with a bad case of the stubborns.

"I can go get a warrant," Wannerman said quietly, upping the ante some. "Don't make no difference to me. Just thought you wouldn't mind, if it's no part of your problem anyway." The sheriff shrugged slowly.

Hardcastle's eyes were on Nick, who seemed to be weighing the value of intervention. Hard to say, though, which side he was planning on coming in on.

Didn't matter. Talcott put his foot down hard. "Then why don't you just go ahead and get one. I'll be here when you get back." He said it with an air of innocent defiance that Hardcastle had to have some grudging admiration for, even though it was a hell'uva inconvenience.

Wannerman nodded once and rolled up his map, acknowledging the temporary setback. He strode back to the car, not showing any signs of irritation, as befitting a law officer who is also an elected official.

Patterson cast the judge a look that patently said, _now two more people know where we're planning to search._ Hardcastle shrugged and said, apropos of the whole exchange, but directed straight back at Patterson, "Gotta do things nice and legal. It's important."

00000

McCormick had been too fidgety to ride around for long. Even the initial swing past the sheriff's office--Wannerman's car gone, the truck and the sedan still sitting there--had done nothing for his frame of mind. After another half-hour of driving, Ed had finally taken him back to the house and let him use the phone again.

This time they were there. McCormick was surprised but pleased. When they connected him through to the judge, he said as much. "Fast work."

"Nope, same old slow, steady progress you'll come to know and expect from the American system of justice. We're waiting on a warrant."

"Hell, it's past noon," McCormick fumed.

"It's private property. We need a warrant, or the owner's permission. Tried to get that this morning."

"Talcott?"

"Yup. He and the kid were both there. He said 'no'. The kid didn't say anything. Didn't have to."

"But they both heard where you want to search?"

"Yeah, saw the map and everything. Wannerman's been trying pretty hard. Might get the warrant today, might not. Probable cause is a little shaky, but it _is_ a murder case. On the _other_ hand, this isthe Great West, where a man's land is a man's land."

"Oh, come on," McCormick grumbled, "it's a bunch of rocks and caves. It's a goddamn surveyor's mistake. He's not _using_ that land. Hell, Vangie went up there, Mendoza went up there, Ed's gone up there. It's got prescriptive easement written all over it."

"Okay, kiddo, you save that argument for moot court. I like it, but I'm not banking a prosecution on it. We'll just have to wait for the warrant and we might not be getting it until tomorrow."

McCormick bit down hard on the rest of what he wanted to say. It wouldn't help matters to make the judge any more uneasy than he already was about his future good behavior. Right now the best he could hope for would be to get out of this conversation without making any promises.

"Yeah, okay," he said, trying to avoid sounding artificially calm. "So are you going to stick around there?"

Hardcastle dropped his voice, "Yeah, as long as Patterson does. I don't think he's got our scruples."

That got a harsh, brief laugh from McCormick. "Okay, you stick to him. I'll . . . hang-out here I guess."

"How's the arm?" The judge seemed to pick up on the sudden acquiescence.

"It's fine. _Fine_. Mary Ellen even opened the pill bottle for me. I'm good. You want me to come down there and show it to you?" he added with a little irritation.

"No, I trust you."

And damned if that didn't make McCormick unhappier than anything the judge had said to him the night before.

00000

Twice Patterson had looked ready to bolt. Twice he'd started to make some excuse to leave the party. Both times Hardcastle had made it subtly clear that he wouldn't get far, and if he hashed what the judge was beginning to think of as 'his case' there'd be hell to pay. Considering that this was all accomplished with facial gestures, body language, and the occasional threat, uttered sotto voce, out of Wannerman's earshot, this was quite a feat.

In the end, when all hope for the quick delivery of the warrant had been dashed, it was mutually decided on that they would return to the Pine Lodge. Wannerman said he would hang around the office a while longer, just in case of a bureaucratic miracle, but he wasn't holding out much hope.

00000

"He's waiting for a warrant," McCormick said wearily. He was sitting on the hood of the Bonneville; they'd taken the discussion outside. "They're not going to get one on a Sunday afternoon, and he's not going to risk going up there and finding something that might nail Vangie's murderer without one."

McCormick was hunched over a little, letting the still-hot rays of the afternoon sun hit his back. It was the first time he'd felt warm since they'd gotten back from their drive. "Warrants," he muttered again.

Ed was fussing with something under the hood of the Camaro. Mark was too dispirited to even look.

"See," he continued his monologue, "he's an officer of the court. He'll _always_ be an officer of the court. It's always 'by the book' with him. It has to be that way."

"But _you're_ not," Ed reached up for one of the wrenches he'd laid out on a towel, "An officer of the court, I mean."

McCormick laughed. Then he turned his head slowly toward the other man, who was now looking up from the engine. "No, I'm not. Not yet anyway. And that's the way it's always been. I don't color inside the lines very well. But I am pretty damn good at finding things."

"So, what do you think is going to happen when they finally get their warrant?"

McCormick rested his forehead against his right hand. "I think . . . I think by the time they get it, any evidence that might be left up there will be gone. It might still be up there, now; it might not be moved until after dark, but by morning it'll be gone."

Ed put down his wrench and straightened up. He looked at McCormick consideringly. "What was that thing you were talking about in there, prescriptive--?"

"Easement," Mark finished. "It when you let someone do something for so long, like take a shortcut across your property, that it becomes the law. It changes the rights of the property owner."

"You know," Ed smiled, "that's what it sounds like _you've_ got. He's let you take the shortcut so many times. Hell, if you hadn't taken the damn shortcut yesterday, he wouldn't even have a warrant to wait for."

Mark was staring back at him. He supposed it might be the beginnings of a fever, but every word Ed had just spoken made perfect, incontrovertible sense. "And . . ."

"And you've already explained that the place up by the caves isn't really Talcott's property. Hell, we've been wandering around up there since I was a kid." Ed shrugged. "So, what's wrong with going up there to look at the sights? Got some nice rock paintings, couple of carvings, too."

"Do you have a rifle?" McCormick asked.

Ed sobered suddenly. "Ah--"

"I think I shouldn't go up there without one," McCormick added quietly.

"I've got a long .22; it's an old Winchester, but it's in good shape," Ed said doubtfully.

"Okay, that'll do. Will you lend it to me?" McCormick boosted himself off the hood and stood there for a moment, as if he was getting his bearings.

Ed was still sorting though his last statement. "Wait a minute. _Lend_ it? I didn't mean you should go running up there by yourself. Hell, you need me to show you the way, at least."

"You made Hardcastle a map," Mark countered reasonably.

"Yeah, but he was supposed to have the sheriff along, and he wasn't looking like something the cat dragged in. Anyway, how're you expecting to fire a rifle the way you are now?"

McCormick frowned. Ed was still making sense, and he didn't have time to waste arguing about it.

"Can you hit what you aim at?"

Ed nodded.

"Okay, I hope we won't need it, but just as long as you understand, there's a chance we might."

Ed seemed to be reconsidering his earlier words. "Maybe we _should_ give Hardcastle a call."

"He'd say no. That's what he'd have to do. My end of the deal is not to put him in the position where he _has_ to say no."

"Yeah," Ed exhaled. "I get it." He looked over his shoulder at the house. "I think I'd better get the gun out quietly."

"Okay," McCormick nodded. Then he patted his pocket and reached inside for something. "Here, could you put this somewhere safe in the house?"

Ed was frowning as he reached for the well-worn leather case.

"Set of lock picks," Mark explained. "Won't need 'em up there. Funny sometimes though," he mused half to himself, "I used 'em one time in the middle of the jungle. Still," he lifted his head, "in cases of arrest, for whatever reason, the guy found in possession of burglar tools looses a whole lot of moral advantage." He smiled, "I just brought them along so they wouldn't tempt Mrs. Parsons."

Chapter 16—The Element of Surprise

Hardcastle had barely turned into the parking area of the Pine Lodge, when he saw Mrs. Parsons waving at him from the office door. He parked and got out. She was clearly summoning him. Patterson had noticed, too and was walking over within earshot.

"Oh, you just missed him. There was a call for you, from a doctor. Not Dr. Sandoval, though, someone else. I wrote down the number for you. He said it was important and he would try to reach you at the sheriff's office."

Hardcastle snatched the paper from her almost before she'd finished talking. She fluttered her hands for a moment as if he'd frightened her. When he turned from her he found himself almost smack up against Patterson, who was also wearing a grim look.

"Meaker?" Patterson asked coolly. "Any message?"

"Just to call him back. I think I'll do that from my room." He watched Patterson back down a bit, but then turn toward his car. "On second thought; he's probably already spoken with the sheriff. Maybe we should just go back there, whaddaya say?"

Hardcastle watched the other man gauging the unspoken threat. He thought maybe the scales were tipping, for Mr. Patterson, in the direction of independent action but, at least for the moment, the balance held.

"I think we should take my car," Patterson said. His tone had changed. He was suddenly more than merely annoyed. He sounded deadly serious.

Hardcastle didn't argue. Anything that would reduce the risk of Patterson dealing with his own agenda was okay with him.

The judge made one more attempt as he climbed into the passenger side of the government car. "What's Meaker going to tell me?"

"How should I know?" Patterson spat back.

00000

When Ed had told her he was going to show Mark around a little more, Mary Ellen had looked worried and almost balked.

"But it's going to be dark pretty soon."

"Oh, we still have an hour of light."

"I should make you two some more sandwiches, at least," Mary Ellen fretted. "It's dinner time."

"You make 'em," Ed gave her a peck on the forehead. "We'll eat 'em when we get back."

McCormick winced at this last bit, standing out of the way by the door, and feeling about as low as the snake he'd encountered the day before. Ed was getting too damn good at this lying thing. If he hadn't had such a generally good impression of the guy, he would have thought it boded badly for the marriage.

Ed led him to the truck, where he already stowed the .22 and flashlights with fresh batteries. Mark looked over his shoulder at the house as they pulled away. Mary Ellen was standing on the front steps, looking much wiser than he thought Ed had given her credit for.

They were out on the open road, south of town, within a few minutes. There was still daylight, but the shadows of the western bluffs were long, and it was already dusk at the base of the cliffs. Ed drove with single-minded determination, like a man who wanted to get something done, and get back to something else as quickly as possible.

"There," he said, that's the road Carlos was talking about. It's only a mile or so up here." He turned right and maneuvered the truck into the worn ruts. McCormick bit his lip against the jolts, cradling his left arm in his right. By the time they pulled to a stop, surrounded by the shadows of the high cliffs above them, he was glad to be getting out to walk.

Ed reached in behind the seat. He passed a flashlight to McCormick and slipped one into his own belt, leaving his hands free for the rifle.

"That way?" Mark asked quietly, pointing toward the one spot that might pass for a route up. Ed nodded. "Okay, I'll go first, stay a ways back behind me."

"Why? I have the gun."

"Won't matter. If somebody's up there, they have the high ground _and_ the element of surprise. If I get into trouble, I'll make sure you know about it, and then you'll still have the gun. Okay?"

Ed nodded doubtful. They'd emerged into a flat area, past the first rocks but before the real upslope began. Over to the side was a hollow and some scraggly bushes. Behind them, half-hidden, was a well-worn Ford truck.

Ed was staring. He swallowed once.

"Whose?" Mark asked in a whisper.

"Belongs to the Talcotts. I've done everything but put a new engine in it. Got about two hundred thousand miles on it."

"Who _drives_ it?" Mark asked, a little impatiently.

"Ah, mostly Nick. They've got a later model one; that'd be his dad's."

Mark nodded to this reasoning. It fit what he'd been thinking all along. "Well, he doesn't have the element of surprise anymore, but neither do we. He probably heard us drive up. Does Nick hunt?"

"_Everybody_ hunts."

"Yeah," Mark grimaced, "that's how he got so damned _efficient_ at bleeding someone out." He shook his head. "Probably a dead shot, too. You stay back a ways," he reminded him. Then he took off the sling, _like wearing a damn white flag_, he thought, and crept forward into the shadows.

00000

Wannerman was inside, the desk clerk showed them directly in. He was standing behind his desk, loading a shotgun and looking mightily peeved. He cast his gaze back and forth between the two other men, as if trying to divvy up his displeasure in the right proportions.

He finally pounced on Hardcastle first. "You talked to Meaker yesterday? You had some suspicions about something _else_ that the woman might've been exposed to? But you didn't tell me."

"Just suspicions," the judge said grimly. "What the hell did he come up with?"

"Well, he says you must've put it together. You're the one who called _him_, and that was last night. He says atropine is some kind of antidote for nerve gas. Says the bleach is, too."

"Nerve gas?" Hardcastle's eyes swung toward Patterson. The man was standing stock still, mouth set in a narrow line of defiance. "Dangerous _and_ embarrassing, I'd say. How much are we talking about here, Mr. Patterson? And who misplaced it?"

"Not _misplaced_." The other man shrugged. "Stolen. About four months ago, from a storage facility at a location in the southwest." Patterson fell back into bureaucratic punctiliousness. "The thieves were all apprehended. All but one barrel was recovered."

"And _that_ one?"

"No one was sure. Their route was retraced. There was some speculation that they had either stowed it somewhere, for later retrieval, or they accidentally lost it from their load, and it was discovered by someone else. There were concerns that if that was the case, the integrity of the storage container might have been compromised."

"And you've been looking for this crap since January? And you didn't warn anybody?"

"That seemed . . . ill advised," Patterson said coolly, "both to avoid unnecessary panic, and to prevent others from searching for it."

"What particular brand of crap are we looking for _this_ time, Patterson?"

"Ah . . ." the hesitation was only momentary. Even Patterson could tell the gig was up. "It's g-series, something called Soman. The Germans developed it during World War II."

"How bad?"

"As a vapor? Real bad. Kills in minutes, and at the temperatures we've got around here, it'll vaporize pretty easily."

"But it's in liquid form right now? In a barrel?"

"Still pretty bad if you get it on your skin, or in your eyes. Just takes a little longer that way."

Hardcastle looked at Wannerman. "Thirty gallons, that's a couple hundred pounds. He's gonna need a truck to move it."

"And if the barrel is already damaged . . ." Wannerman trailed off, looking like a guy who was imagining the worst.

"I don't think we can wait for the warrant," Hardcastle exhaled emphatically. "You got another one of those shotguns?"

00000

. McCormick picked his way from boulder to boulder, not using the flashlight, even with the deepening dusk. The rise was very gradual, not like the path on the other side of the valley, still he was breathing hard and, even without the sling, he kept his left arm cradled in against his chest, throwing his balance off.

He hadn't gone a hundred yards before he heard the staccato rhythm of cursing, an intensely frenetic litany with some resonance. It had to be coming from the cave up ahead. The opening was only a darker patch among the shadows. He pulled up, crouching behind a rock. Ed caught up to him.

"How big's that cave up there?" Mark whispered.

"Not very," Ed replied. "I've camped in it; goes back maybe ten feet, then narrows down to a passage--'bout five feet wide and four high--that dead ends a little ways back."

"I'm gonna go forwards. See if I can get a look inside."

"We could go back, or one of us, anyway," Ed suggested.

"I can't handle the rifle, and I 'm not leaving you here by yourself. I only hear one person so far. If we can wait until he comes out, without him figuring out anybody's here, this should be pretty easy."

Ed nodded and McCormick edged up again, heading toward another crop of rocks more in line with the opening of the cave. Now a small light had come on, visible at ground level. He could see one bulky, motionless shadow, and another moving one, cast up against the side of the cave and spilling out onto the ground. The cursing had dropped down to a mutter. Then he heard what might have been a sob of frustration. Things did not appear to be going well in there.

Mark slipped in behind a rock that was less than twenty feet from the cave's mouth, alongside a taller rock wall, which was undercut at the bottom. He crouched down there, and now realized he was at eye level with a mass of drawings, brown on the pale red stone--spirals, and more complicated figures, and, amid them all, dozens and dozens of hand prints.

Then he squinted a bit. Most of the paintings were faint, with mottled surfaces, but the smattering of handprints nearer to the ground were more deeply pigmented, a different brown entirely, and they were far more smudged. He looked down at the ground--loose sand, nothing special, though maybe mounded up a little in places. He reached down, dragging his finger through it, and felt a little resistance, like dried mud, about an inch below the surface.

_They haven't had much rain here lately._

He snatched his finger away, then stared at it closely in the gloom, as if he half-expected to see the ochre of dried blood on it. It was too dark to tell for sure. He wiped his hand on his pants and eased himself out from under the ledge. The man in the cave was moving again.

This time the sobs were distinct, and the breathing in between had a desperate ragged quality to it. Then, very distinctly, he heard the bitter utterance, "Goddamn stuff," followed immediately by the almost palpable concussion of a single gunshot.

00000

Again Patterson had insisted on taking his sedan and Hardcastle had gone with him, Wannerman leading the way, no lights, no sirens. The last hundred yards was traversed on parking lights alone, at a slow, noiseless coast. They pulled in alongside him. Hardcastle had just gotten out, standing with the sedan between him and the bluff.

The sheriff was already going forward. Hardcastle heard him growl a heart-felt "Dammit," as he moved past two large boulders. He trotted to catch up. There was another truck parked there.

"Ed Davis's?" the judge said in a low voice as he approached.

Wannerman turned abruptly toward him. "You _knew _about this?"

"No," Hardcastle felt it was time for the absolute truth. "But McCormick spent the day with Ed, and they both knew where we were going to be searching, and that we we're trying to get the warrant this afternoon. They probably--"

"The hell they did," Wannerman cut him off fiercely. "And I hope we're wrong about what's up there."

And then they heard the reverberation of a single gunshot.

00000

Mark watched the moving shadow separate itself from the other, and then the figure of a man stagger forward a few feet from the cave. He could hear nothing after the gunshot, but the man's chest seemed to be rising and falling in shudders, and he had his hands to his face. He was no longer armed.

McCormick took a few steps closer, flicking his flashlight on and playing it over the man--a glisten of dark red on the denim shirt. Then he directed it into the mouth of the cave. He could see the other object now, the squat and stationary thing that the man had been trying to deal with—a heavy-duty industrial barrel covered with markings.

Mark caught another movement out of the corner of his eye—Ed standing up.

"Wait, stay there a minute."

Ed froze. McCormick saw the man in front of the cave take two more stumbling steps, as though he wasn't sure where to go next; then he started to topple. Mark moved forward, grabbing him by his shirt and pulling him another few feet before he became dead weight. Then, propelled by an ill-defined sense of urgency that caught in his chest, he dragged him a short ways further. He felt something sticky on his hand as he released the man; it felt like blood.

He realized he'd dropped the flashlight, and began to scrabble around for it. The dusk had turned to full night, without even the benefit of stars, with inexplicable suddenness. Thank God his hearing was returning, though the sound of Hardcastle shouting at him was hardly a comfort. There was that, and the very sharp tones of Patterson, shouting over _him_.

00000

Patterson was a few steps behind him; he'd paused to grab something out of the trunk of his car. Wannerman was even further back; some rational part of Hardcastle's brain was hoping he'd had the sense to go back and radio this in.

As he rounded the rocks near the top of the rise, he saw Ed, standing stock still, only one hand on his rifle and that down at his side. And then the judge's eyes automatically followed the direction of the other man's gaze, and took in the two other figures down on the ground.

One, crumpled in a heap—Talcott's son? He couldn't tell, and, down on his hands and knees, next to him, was McCormick.

Hardcastle heard himself shouting a warning, knowing he was already too late. He was still moving forward when something grabbed him hard by the arm and practically spun him around--Patterson.

"Wait, dammit, can't help him if you go down, too."

At the same rational level, Hardcastle understood this, but it was only because Patterson was handing him something—a pair of heavy gloves--that he didn't pull away.

"Don't have time to suit up," Patterson muttered. "Hope to God it's not vapor we're dealing with." Then he turned to Ed, glaring, "You stay back here, no, you go down _there_." He pointed back toward the cars. "Tell Wannerman we got a hazmat situation here, and we'll need a chopper." He had his gloves on and he'd picked up the black nylon pack he'd hauled up from his car.

Hardcastle was already moving forward again.

"Dammit." Patterson lunged in after him. They spared only a quick look at Nick Talcott. The bloody mess that was the back of his shirt was discouraging enough. Even Hardcastle could see, in an instant's inspection, that the twitching had slowed down--no movement now, not even breathing.

McCormick was kneeling next to Talcott. He'd stopped scrabbling in the dirt and was propped forward on one arm, taking gasping breaths that sounded wet and ragged, and swiping at his face ineffectually. Patterson had the nylon bag open, was digging inside for something. Hardcastle reached clumsily into his own pocket and fetched out the syringe he'd been carrying all day.

Patterson gave him a look and snatched it out of his hand, uncapping it and, ignoring the clothing, aimed the needle straight into McCormick's thigh. "Now, up, that way." Patterson pointed, they both lifted. McCormick, who'd barely seemed to react to the needle, was still trying to help.

They made it about ten feet before he started to stumble. Patterson let him slide down and crouched down with his pack in front of him. "Clothes. _Off_." He shouted the command forcefully enough to get through to even a seriously distracted man.

Mark reached up and started fumbling with his shirt. Hardcastle finished the process with a sharp pull that took off most of the buttons and yanked the sleeves down and off. Patterson had a gallon jug out of the pack, uncapped it, and doused the younger man before the shirt had fallen to the ground.

"Hands," Patterson shouted. The hands were held out, shaking. The bleach smell was pungent as it sluiced away the visible blood. "Finish." Patterson was fetching out another syringe and a second bottle. "Everything." He snatched at the medallion around McCormick's neck and tossed it down. "_Everything._"

Everything it was, until the kid was shivering, soaking wet, and reeking of chlorine. The last jab of the needle seemed to at least provoke some reaction. "Ah." He'd jerked away a little. Hardcastle kept one gloved hand on his shoulder.

The Patterson had him up again. "Let's move." They walked him another fifty feet down from the sodden pile of abandoned clothing. He was supporting most of his own weight, but still didn't seem to know where he was going.

Hardcastle heard Wannerman coming up to them. "Chopper's on the way. I told them what it was. He okay?"

To the judge's relief, Patterson nodded an affirmative. It was still kind of hard to tell.

"He's a yellow tag. The one up there's a black—the Talcott kid. The idiot put a bullet through his chest and into the damn barrel." Patterson was shaking his head, though whether it was over the waste of human life, or the inevitable paperwork that would follow, was hard to say.

"Got a blanket?" Hardcastle asked Wannerman. The shivering had set in in earnest now, and he wanted to know how much of it was just being wet and cold. The sheriff stepped away, and returned a few moments later with something gray and utilitarian. "You done with that stuff?" Hardcastle nodded down at the third empty bottle at Patterson's feet.

"Change gloves," Patterson advised, taking his own off and dropping them a few feet back up the way they'd came. Hardcastle followed instructions, took a second pair from the man, and then the blanket from Wannerman.

McCormick sat there, in what appeared to be oblivious misery, nose running, eyes squeezed shut. His breathing was still wet, with a cough that rattled. But when the judge got back down level with him, and had the blanket wrapped around him, he managed a quietly wheezy, "Thanks."

"Chopper'll be here pretty soon." He pulled the blanket in around the younger man tighter as he tossed back and forth between his very insistent wish to hear McCormick say something else, and not wanting to badger him while he was still obviously having trouble breathing.

The kid solved the dilemma for him, asking, "Tear gas?"

"No," he'd briefly considered lying but he knew his voice would give it away, "Ah . . . _nerve_ gas."

McCormick's eyes came open a bit at this. "No shit?" he said, followed by another racking cough.

"You gotta ask?" Hardcastle said disbelievingly.

"You're lucky," Patterson interjected sharply. "Looks like a relatively light exposure."

"Oh . . . yeah," McCormick was breathing slower now, and a little deeper. "Minor . . . envenomations . . . my specialty." His eyes were open now. "Dark . . . eyes hurt."

"One of the effects," Patterson said. "Messes with the pupils." He glanced over his shoulder.

"It'll get better?" Hardcastle asked.

Patterson nodded absentmindedly, looking back over his shoulder again into the gloom that now barely revealed the still shape on the ground. "Come on," he said insistently. "We're gonna take another little walk."

Chapter 17--Habits

Before it was over, they'd soused him two more times. No one seemed to quite trust the ones who'd already done it. The last time, at least, had been indoors. He still couldn't see worth a darn; it was like looking through brown glass--spots of bright light faded off into muddy shadows.

Didn't matter, he concluded. It hurt too much to keep his eyes open and, once he'd gotten the hang of taking slow, heavy breaths through his mouth, all he wanted to do was go to sleep.

No such luck. He'd become a matter of serious interest to a least a half dozen people. Probably the height of the exchange had come when one of them questioned him about the marks on his left wrist, and he informed them about his adventure with the snake. _Yesterday? Seems longer._

In the silence that followed he could almost hear the looks being exchanged, and then someone--one of the doctors, he was pretty sure--asked him, "Are you _always_ this unlucky?"

He blinked; he squinted. He tried to make out whether there was some eye-rolling involved in that question. And finally he replied, quietly, "It's all . . . relative."

Eventually they stopped poking him and let him rest a little. Eventually he was able to breath again without a conscious effort, and the pain behind his eyes diminished to a dull ache. Eventually he started wondering when the judge would get there, with an odd mixture of wish and dread, neither of which was enough to keep him awake.

00000

At least three people had told him everything was okay, but until he saw for himself he wasn't entirely convinced. His last glimpse of McCormick had been just before they loaded him up, and the worried looks on the faces of the transport team had belied Patterson's casual assurance.

He settled himself into a chair next to the bed. There was still a faint smell of chlorine—Hardcastle thought it was going to be a while before he'd feel relaxed by the pool. But mostly he wondered how the hell he was supposed to give the kid a dressing down when he, himself, could still taste the sharp tang of fear. It would just have to wait.

He shifted in his seat and realized the younger man's eyes had opened. The room was dimly lit, only a small light above the bed, and he suddenly understood that McCormick wasn't looking, he was _listening_.

"I'm here, kiddo," the judge exhaled. "You okay?"

"Ah, yeah, pretty good." His voice did sound better and he was speaking more than one word at a time. "Can you turn on the light?"

Hardcastle reached over and pulled the string alongside the bed. McCormick lifted his head and blinked in the brightness of the fluorescence.

"Still can't see so hot." But now he was squinting directly at the judge. "Breathing's better though . . . what time is it?"

McCormick's watch had been left in the jetsam at the foot of the bluff--wouldn't have been able to read it, anyway, the judge supposed.

"Almost midnight." He watched the kid's good hand travel up to a place just above the middle of his chest, rest there a moment, then self-consciously move back down to his side. "I dunno," Hardcastle said quietly, "I'd just be grateful to be alive."

"I know, I know," Mark shook his head once. "It is really stupid; it's a habit."

"It's not all you have left of her, you know?"

McCormick nodded.

"_That's_ what's inside of you. Always will be."

No nod this time, just a barely audible, "Yeah, I know that, it's just--"

"Then is it because you still think of yourself _that_ way?" Hardcastle prodded. "I mean, as a hopeless case?" He'd kept his voice even, calm, inquiring.

"Ah . . ." There was a long pause. "Maybe . . . maybe that's part of it."

Hardcastle let out a long sigh. "I talked to Ed."

McCormick's head stayed down; he didn't say anything for a moment. Then he said quietly, "It was _my_ fault. He didn't talk me into it; I don't care what he said."

"Okay, I'm not gonna argue with you two about that. You haven't had any chance to get your story straight this time. You'll have to get together and divide up the blame." Hardcastle sighed again. "I think there's enough to go around."

"Well, it was _my_ idea," McCormick said, a little sullenly.

"Yeah, that much I kinda figured." the older man rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. He looked up; McCormick was eyeing him with stubbornly blurry belligerence, still ready to defend the fact of his guilt against anything the judge might have heard from Ed.

"You know," Hardcastle continued, "It's not the 'what' that bothers me so much, it's the 'why'. Ed told me about that, too."

McCormick dropped his head again, as if he was trying to remember exactly what he'd said to the man, six hours earlier. "Okay," he finally muttered, "I think I'm gonna plead diminished capacity here; maybe I had a fever or something."

"Well, that might be why you said it out loud," Hardcastle reasoned quietly, "but I don't think that's why you were _thinking _it." He shifted forward in his seat a little, putting everything into his tone, knowing McCormick couldn't read his face. "Listen, kiddo, what you came up with, when we were trying to get the warrant--prescriptive easement; that was damn smart. Not just that, it was the truth. Talcott had never treated that area as private property."

"But you said you wouldn't hang a prosecution on it--"

"I thought we probably had time. I didn't think there was any reason to get creative. But that _was _plenty creative. And if it'd turned out we needed another lever, I would've used it." Hardcastle sat back, straightening his shoulders. "Anyway, I want you to know, I don't just think of you as the guy who does my second story jobs."

"'_Just_'?" McCormick had the beginnings of a smile.

"All right," the judge huffed. "Once in a while--_very_ rarely--in life or death circumstances, your extracurricular skills _are_ useful." He shook his head. "But that was never why I kept you around--not then and not now. Okay?"

McCormick seemed to be considering this for a moment. Then he said, with a smile that was a little more natural, "Okay."

The judge shifted again, leaning back as he dug in his pocket for a moment, pulling something out and reaching through the bedrails for McCormick's good hand. Mark twitched in startlement before he understood it was Hardcastle passing something over to him.

But a split-second later there was a look of immense relief, followed almost immediately by concern. "But Patterson said--"

"Oh, that was just Patterson being Patterson," the judge grumbled. "Sorry I couldn't get the chain. He was in a hurry to get you moving."

The kid was clutching it now, almost white-knuckled. "You're sure it's okay? _Dammit_. You picked it up and carried it around? It could have been dangerous."

"Oh, that's _rich_," Hardcastle shook his head, "coming from you. Just so happens, kiddo, I used to look at crime scenes for a living. And Patterson gave me the run-down on this crap on the way there. The vapors hit you right away—that's what you got, a whiff of the stuff when you pulled Talcott out of there. But the vapor doesn't stick to anything. Then there's the liquid; that's absorbed through the skin and it takes a little while to work. Talcott mighta got splashed when he shot through the barrel, but he was also soaked with blood. There wasn't any blood on your shirt, none on that medal, either--only on your hands, where you grabbed on to him. So that was the only place where you coulda been contaminated.

"Anyway, the thing was lying there soaked in bleach."

"So you picked it up?" McCormick said disbelievingly. "_Why_?"

"Impulse," Hardcastle said. "Reflex, I guess. I didn't want to have to listen to you whine about it all the way home." He wasn't sure, for a moment, if McCormick could see the smile that was intended to soften the meaning.

But the grip had relaxed, and there was an echoing smile of understanding from the younger man. Hardcastle sat back and made himself a little more comfortable, thinking about how he'd let another golden opportunity to give the kid a stern lecture on right and wrong slip through his fingers, and somehow not regretting it one bit.

00000

There was no whining on the way home, the next afternoon, even though Hardcastle drove and Mark as usual, found it hard to be a passenger. He put up and shut up, as the judge would've said, feeling fairly certain that he'd gotten off with a slap on the wrist and he shouldn't push his luck.

Still, he felt entitled to ask questions. He thought maybe he'd already been told some of the answers Sunday night, but the details were a little fuzzy.

"Where'd the stuff come from?"

"Government stockpiles. Stolen. Back in January. Patterson thinks the original thieves lost a barrel on a road in the middle of nowhere. Barrel was probably damaged then, too. Nick Talcott stumbled across it, put it in his truck. Patterson's surprised he didn't poison himself right then and there, but our boy Nick's got lucky, and he at least had the sense to handle it wearing heavy gauge gloves, and the damage was probably minor to begin with."

"And the sheep?"

"Just a guess, may be how he found the stuff in the first place. Leaked a little onto the grass where it fell. Three dead sheep. Then he staged the accident to cover-up the poisoning. As long as there was an obvious cause of death, no one was going to look too hard at them. He ran over the carcases, paid for them, and hoped that would be that."

"But then Mendoza made some remarks." McCormick said. "He didn't mean anything, but it must've made Nick nervous."

"Yup. So, when poor Vangie came along and found the stuff, and got poisoned by it, Nick decided he had to have another obvious cause of death, just like before. Only this was a human life, and she wasn't dead yet when he cut her throat."

McCormick winced. "All to cover up the fact that she was poisoned?"

"With the side benefit of implicating Mendoza as well. Of course the body had to be found quickly; he didn't want an extensive search for a missing person."

McCormick shook his head. "But what the hell was Nick going to do with thirty gallons of nerve gas?"

"Not sure we'll ever really know. He was a pretty smart guy, Nick. He went over to the University library in Phoenix, copied off some articles. Wannerman got his search warrants yesterday, found a lot of papers in the Talcott attic. Looks like he was trying to find a buyer. He didn't realize, at first, how hard it would be to move a damaged container.

"Then there's the matter of Lindy Talcott." Hardcastle sighed. "Turns out her 'stroke' started as seizures one night at home. She wasn't breathing right for long enough that there was brain damage. She still talks some, though. She told Wannerman she used Nick's truck the afternoon before she got sick. Meaker thinks she must've gotten some of the leakage on her hands. There wasn't any vapor, so she didn't have any immediate symptoms. She apparently doesn't even know she was poisoned."

McCormick was staring down at his own hands fixedly. "So," he finally murmured, "Nick wound up with a growing number of victims, and no way to re-hide the stuff once we started closing in on him?"

"That's about it. But Patterson thinks he must've gotten a dose while he was trying to move the thing yesterday evening. That might be why he shot himself. He'd already seen the effects. Anyway, even if he'd managed to move it, it was already leaking into the ground."

"Maybe it wasn't blood, then," McCormick mused, half to himself.

"What?"

"I found a place. I thought I told you. Under a ledge outside the cave, there was hard mud under a layer of sand. I thought . . . I thought it was where Professor Emory might have been killed. I guess it slipped my mind."

"Well . . . you were busy." Hardcastle seemed to be thinking about that one for a moment. "Dunno, might be. Won't know much more until the hazmat guys decide the area is clean. Patterson called it a 'hot zone'. He's been pretty busy since yesterday."

"Yeah," McCormick grunted, "trying to _contain_ it, I'm sure."

"Don't be too hard on him," Hardcastle drawled. "He did say he was glad you'd pulled through."

"Oh, sure, only half as much paperwork this way."

"Yup," the judge nodded, "those were _his_ words, more or less."

"What about Mendoza and his guys?"

"Oh, you won't believe that one." Hardcastle smiled. "Ed's volunteered to go look for them; Wannerman's sending along a notarized statement."

"Yeah?"

"And Mary Ellen made a batch of cookies—oatmeal--for him to take with."

"Hell," Mark smiled, "it'll probably work--beats a SWAT team."

"Yeah, well, with the helicopters and the hazmat vehicles and all, they've got to be figuring by now that something else is going on." The judge sighed heavily and then finally added, "Anyway, I called Sturgis and told him what happened."

"All of it?"

"Most of it. Left out some of the more brutal mechanics. Didn't tell him about either of your brushes with death, either," The judge added laconically

"Good," McCormick said with feeling. "He sort of thought something like that might happen."

"Yeah," Hardcastle darted a glance sideways, then back at the road, "he told me he was glad I'd taken you along. He said you were 'the calm voice of reason.'" The judge shook his head slowly. "You don't want to disillusion the poor guy."

00000

"Home." Someone was nudging him. "Can you see?"

He blinked at the oddness of the question and then he remembered. "Ahh," he blinked again. The shadows were still darker than normal, even for a moonless night, but he could make out the porch light on the gatehouse. "Yeah, not perfect but . . . yeah."

He opened his door and stepped out, smelling the ocean for the first time in four days. He reached into his pocket, for the tenth time since that morning, felt the medal, and let it drop back down again.

He reached behind the seat with his right hand a pulled out his bag, lighter by one set of clothes, and, very sadly, a small and well-traveled leather case. He hadn't wanted to bring it up. He'd just have to get in touch with Ed quietly, and tell him where to send it.

He said, "Goodnight," and made his way carefully the last few steps along the drive to the gatehouse walkway.

Knowing Hardcastle was watching, he tried to make his stride fairly confident, just this side of tripping over the unseen ground and falling on his face. He put the bag down, fished in his pocket for his house keys, and let himself in--finally hearing the truck starting up again, and being backed into the garage.

He smiled to himself as he stepped inside and turned the lights on. He set his bag on the table next to the sofa. He opened it, and was starting to separate out the dirty clothes, when his hand encountered a familiar, soft, smooth shape. He snatched at it and held it up, equally puzzled and delighted.

_The judge had talked to Ed._ _And Ed had, of course, wanted to make sure you got your property back. And Hardcase put it right back in here._

_Which means . . ._

_Go figure._

_How many ways did you screw up this weekend?_

_But--_he tucked the leather case in his pocket, feeling it settle down on top of the St. Jude medal—_it's not hopeless_.

_You'll get it right next time._


End file.
